I'm home sick. I'm bored. I feel too rotten to actually do anything.
When I have free time, I write. Granted, sometimes 'writing' really consists of me grousing while trying to sort out the latest mess I've made of a plot and the hapless characters stuck in it. For instance, I have this unhappy dude who is suspected of murder traipsing off to an adventure and thought 'easy peasy this plot writes itself'.
Ho ho! says my plot. Take this! And I have a sudden dump of too many characters... I mean, it looks like the Alewives in Lake Michigan during a red tide. All writhing around bitching and complaining. I know what I have to do. But I'm sick and just the idea of rolling up my sleeves and sorting this mess is like asking a sick person to wash the three days of dishes that stacked up when the washer broke. Did that metaphor turn into a snake in my hands? Yes it did.
Like I said, I'm sick.
Snakes and dead fish. What the heck?
So... I opened Kindle and read a bit. This would be good except of course my eyes are burning and my muscles ache and I can't concentrate. I finished 'Soulless' which is the vampire book Jane Austen never wrote. (that's a good thing) but I read it while reading 'The Border Lords' which is a book Miss Austen would have probably had the gardener take out and burn. Not because it is bad but because it is intensely violent.
How did I get from dead fish to drug cartels? Well, it seemed like a logical progression a few minutes ago. I think my fever is going up again.
You know how when you're sick after day three or so you run out of Kleenex and opt for the roll of Charmin? But my roll of tp has toppled off the bed and disappeared and the maid seems to have taken the day off. I need lemon tea! I need a cold compress! Wait, what era am I in?
Back to the book. How is it I've written fifty thousand words and only five thousand of them are any good? How does that happen? This would have never happened to Jane who, I understand, wrote in ink pen on paper.
Now my head hurts, my nose is both stuffy and uncomfortable, I'm itchy and irritable and I can't write worth a damn. Jane would call me Pathetic.
Where is that frickin' maid?