No posts for two weeks, and not a bit of shame over it. This has been a house of plague and pain, and all just a month before we’re flying away to the next chapter in our lives. For the better part of a week, I wasn’t able to sleep on my back. Not insomnia – oh no, my friends, I was tired, so very tired. But back pain interrupted my sleep, locking up as soon as I relaxed. Instead of a fitful night’s sleep, I ended up in a half sitting, half asleep position in the living room.
And the side effects were less than welcoming. Within a few days I became extra grouchy and twice as lethargic. My body wanted to sleep whenever I got comfortable for more than a moment, fearful it wouldn’t get another opportunity. Writing? Not happening. I didn’t have writer’s block; the stories were all there still, sitting in neat little rows, waiting to be woven together with words on screen. What I had was a lack of energy and strength to think coherently enough to write them down.
And that really sucked. The creative juice I use to write stories? Same juice powers my work brain and everything else. It’s been a long few weeks, all of it muddled together in my mind as just one long hazy dullness.
I’m happy to say that I’m almost back on my feet. Sleep has returned, brain is almost back up to speed. I know I declared that I wouldn’t work on another novel until after the move, but I have to be honest. I miss the writing slough, shedding words. The worst influence of all? This kid:
As a family member in Plague House, Youngest Daughter was home sick this week. How did she spend her sick time? On a laptop, in the backyard. Doing what? Researching and working on her just announced trilogy. Because writing is fun, Dad. Because writing is fun.
Well, if that wasn’t motivation for me to be working on something, I don’t know what is.