There is an understanding among writers, at least I hope so, that nothing goes to waste. Not a fight with your neighbor, a bad waiter, a rude barrista, a friendly squabble, even a bad bout of depression. Before the Prozac sinks in, I will sometimes write down how I feel. I call it journaling. It ‘s therapeutic and useful. Even if I never come back to it, somewhere in my pea-brain it hibernates just waiting for the perfect scene.
For almost a week I’ve been sick. Good news: after fighting to take off 8lbs I’ve managed to lose the last 3 without trying (I don’t recommend it). Bad news: it’s kept me from writing. Even my characters are silent. And they’re never silent. Never, never, never. You know that far off look I get…yeah, that’s my characters speaking. Now, it’s me in a Nyquil fog.
My future characters, some whom I’ve yet to name, are running for the nether regions. Wading through the Nyquil fog, hiding behind headache mountain, because they don’t wish to be ill, they don’t want to be on their death bed speaking like a southern belle with a hand dramatically draped over her forehead. And the truth is, I don’t want that either.
Don’t worry my forever-inner-voice-buddies, I don’t have plans for you to fall ill, but if you do, I’ll be ready with the right amount of phlegm, cough attacks, and under the weather euphoric drift to get us all through it.
Be well my friends.