I’ve taken to writing blindfolded, rolling my head around. Speaking gibberish, sounding out vowels and mashes of consonants. All of this, by the way, for a novel (maybe). Disclosing some history: I wrote my last one, my first first one–as my true first novel is 50,000 words of cliches and will forever live inside a box neath my pillow & bed–in 72 hours, first draft, sleeping six hours total. I feel like the fugue created by my body struggling to maintain helped me be something really desperate, which fit what was happening in the narrative. Roundabout way of asking: You perform your writing? I like to. Yell at me some, please.
p.s. no sleep is midas touch
p.p.s. The Pirahã people have no history, no descriptive words and no subordinate clauses.