Over the weekend I had the stomach flu.
Now my cold has returned with a vengeance, leaving me hoarse and half mute at the most inopportune times.
Still, I told R I would be at the shop, since he is sick too. Suck it up time. I’m just gonna be a little late.
For I have been writing, and with a kid, I don’t get blocks of time every night to just immerse myself in my fictional world. So I am learning to adapt and steal a half hour here, an hour there. I started writing this morning, got four pages done. It’s nothing like my old marathons where I could easily write 20 pages in four hours. It’s something, though.
My mood is better today. At least I no longer have faucet nose like I did yesterday. I was chained to a box of tissues.
Yesterday, for a change, my mind and body were on the same page. We did not want to be at the shop. We went anyway (listen to me, I sound schizophrenic, but in a way, mind and body are two separate entities who just happen to reside together.) but every hour seemed grueling, especially having a cold and him keeping it so cold in there.
Today I don’t want to go, but that is less physical or mental.
When my writing is “on”, I need to run with it because it can go away at any time. An eight hour break to go help him might bring me home to stare at a blinking cursor for the next six months. Creativity is such a fluid thing, and more so when you’re moods and anxiety suck the life out of you.
Which the anxiety at times is unbearable. When they do my autopsy, I bet they are going to find my chest cavity wall dented and banged up from all the pounding heart shit that comes with panic.
Do I get two points for morbidity in the A.M?
Blah. Time to get dressed.
Time to go make the donuts.
I feel a mood swing coming on.
