I've been secretly falling apart

Every night I stay up too late with whatever tv series I'm wanting to watch all of/is closest to me at the time and I write. Usually I'll put a hat on to write. This is because I love my hats and I never wear them out. I'm justifying the cost. So I'll write and write and write and feel goddamn wonderful doing so, although mostly I keep that to myself out of politeness. I start on my laptop creating file after file. Some are merely titles and an introductory sentence. Some are thousands and thousands of cascading words. Once the battery dies I trail onto notebooks with doodles and notes and any words that pop into my head. Then I fall asleep and scrawl all over my skin and my sheets and wake up the next morning ready to access the damages. Mostly everything I write can be scrapped. Maybe I'll salvage a sentence or two or an image I was particularly proud of. Even if what I've written is good there's still the endless rewrites. I can't progress if something previous needs work. I often think that if I could just get it right the first time I could get a lot more written.

Today is my last day of the holidays which fucking sucks really. I'd take a week less if it meant I was actually off at the same time as everyone else. I'm going to have 2 weeks of Julie laughing at me from her bed when I drag myself to classes I don't care about. But that's a different rant. Today is redraft day. I'm going to go through everything I've written since September (plus the two pieces I wrote between my awful stage and my present stage) and rewrite the ones I still like. It's a chance to see what I do right and what I do wrong and fix it all til I'm damn near perfect and then I'll rewrite it some more.

It's just a damn shame I didn't have the motivation to do this like a week ago.