Creative Migraines R Us

Chuck rolls out of bed - or in this case, tumbledown sofa and pile of dirty laundry, and as many pillows and cushions as he could scrounge - at exactly 11.45 in the morning. The resounding thump reverberates through his head in ways he can’t even begin to describe, so he doesn’t even try. 

Instead, he scrambles to his feet and heads straight for the kitchenette. 

A small part of his brain tells him he should really clean up some time soon, before he catches bubonic plague or something. Another part of his brain tells the first part to shut up, and he pours himself a cracked-mug of water (mostly because he drank all the remaining alcohol the night before).

Shuffling back to the sofa, he turns the laptop round so it’ll be facing him when he flops down, then does so with a grunt. He’ll have to actually get dressed today, if he wants to replenish his stores, but it’s early enough that he can do that later.

The laptop powers back to life when he jabs at the touch-pad and - slowly and carefully, because his head really does feel like it might fall off - he re-reads what he wrote before passing out the night before.

It wasn’t much, just a couple new scenes; but what there was? 

Sitting back, Chuck wipes a hand over his face, then through his hair.

“Really not sure I like where this is going, head,” he muttered quietly enough that he didn’t hurt said head.

When he’d first come up with the idea of angels? That had been awesome. He’d really enjoyed where his head was taking him, and so had his publisher. They didn’t really have the money to publish right now, but she’d loved it anyway; It was kind of gratifying having a woman enthuse down the phone at you.

But then his head had apparently decided to fuck with him and he’d re-written…

Well. 

He much preferred the earlier version, but his head wouldn’t let him continue in that vein, he literally couldn’t figure out how to continue the earlier version, it was like there was a fully reinforced mental block, with battlements and a moat and all that stuff you found in Europe; so he was stuck writing this new version. And he didn’t like it and he didn’t think his publisher - or his fans, if he ever found a backer - would either. 

After a few more minutes of glum self-recrimination, he decided he really did want some more booze right about now. He pushed himself once more to his feet and shuffled blearily to his bedroom in search of clean-ish clothing to wear.