So I’m better enough to go to work, take a deep breath without coughing (most of the time) and yes to write.
While I was sick I was dormant in the creative world. I didn’t write. I thought a lot about it. I thought:
- Picking up a pen sounds like more effort than another nap.
- No way I can think in a straight line.
- Look at all the time I’m wasting – Ooh a re-run of M.A.S.H.
While I was sick an amazing friend gave me amazing edits to take care of and now illness gone I have nothing but terror standing between me and doing the damn work. But it seems like terror isn’t willing to just stand there in my way.
Terror: “I’ll stay put here between you and your goal if you just sit there watching M.A.S.H.”
Me: “Sounds Great!”
I think the stress of putting off my edits is the reason weredogs chased me in my dreams last night and my presumed rescuer cut off my index finger. Seriously, it’s get writing or never sleep again.
I just have to keep telling myself the hole always looks deeper from the bottom.
Wish me luck.
I’ve got nothing. Sleep would probably help. Maybe you should write about weredogs, car doors that just wont lock (against the ware dogs) and what the hell the guy wanted with my finger. Happy writing.