I have a blinding headache. Can hardly see. Wrote three full works today. Does one know how difficult that is? Two short stories ("Homecoming Blend," "Seen a Face") for Longer on the Inside, and a film piece. My heart is fast and I feel like ass. Head hurts so much I could actually be sick. Film piece pertained to a new Billie Holiday documentary, so my latest work on her. One looks back at it, and sees what is pulled into the piece--Citizen Kane, football, Teo Macero, the ghost of Hamlet's father, noir, locked room mysteries, Gauguin's Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going? You encounter no writing like this in any way, which is always the case with the fiction, but it's always the case with the nonfiction, too.
I should watch Meet Me in St. Louis, which is on TCM now. Try and get these lethal levels of stress and anxiety under control. This is why I did what I did yesterday. The toil this takes in every way, including physically. If I give in on any front, I'll die.
Do a better job this week. With everything. Get your books done. Get people what they need. If something else works out while that's being taken care, good, but take some of the stress off of yourself by doing what you have to do.