THE POSTSCRIPT, Carrie Classon

About a million years ago (or at least it feels that way), I used to produce theater. The season ended just before Christmas with “A Christmas Carol,” and a peculiar thing would happen just as the last show closed.

I would get a fever.

I was always in the show, and sometimes I would feel my fever rising before Scrooge had Tiny Tim on his shoulders. I’d check my forehead, and sure enough, before the audience had made it out into the cold winter night, I would have a fever, which would be followed by congestion and coughing and everything else that comes with a bad cold.

This was odd because I was never sick before that night. Of course, I was in my twenties, so keeping healthy was less of a stretch than it is now. But I frequently ate poorly, and I’m sure I didn’t always get enough sleep. The one thing that was constant was stress. I had something to worry about every single day. But as the lights went down on that final performance, my body decided it was time to be sick.

The first time this happened, I thought, “What bad luck!”

The second time it happened, I thought, “There must be a lot of germs around this time of year!”

But by the third and fourth time it happened, there was no denying what was going on. I was somehow—unwillingly—giving myself permission to get sick. And it infuriated me.

I spent the holidays sniffling and blowing my nose and probably infecting other people. It was a lousy way to spend Christmas, and it seemed terribly unfair that I couldn’t simply take a little time off.

I now realize that I was taking time off the only way I knew how.

After I left the theater, I was no more prone to illness over the holidays than any other time of year. I no longer had this extended period of pushing myself to the limit and then collapsing completely. “Good!” I said. “I’m glad that’s over!”

Then I started writing.

I wrote 1,000 words or fewer in the first days. I slowly ramped up over the subsequent weeks, and usually by the end, it felt like a mad race to the finish line. I had no idea how the story would end, and I was filled with this massive fear that, when I got to the end, it would be terrible, or there would be no ending, or the book would never be finished.

When I reached the end of the book, it felt like a miracle. And then I got sick.

The first time this happened, I thought, “What bad luck!” (I am a very slow learner.) But I have now written a few books. And every time I finished a book, I had to take a break to fully recover.

So on this last book, I told myself, “Slow down! You are going to finish.” I paced myself. I still finished. There was no disaster. And best of all, I didn’t get sick.

And I realized that I fuel a lot of activity with unbridled stress. I use panic as a means to meet deadlines and anxiety to accomplish goals. It’s a little embarrassing because it seems to me that by now, I should have a few more skills.

So I’m taking some time off before I begin editing. I’m sleeping a little longer. I’m eating a little better. The book will wait. Because I realize that, after all these years, I am still not fully recovered.

To see photos, check out CarrieClassonAuthor on Facebook or visit CarrieClasson.com.