One Hand On The Edge Of The Grave, One On The Keyboard
Remember all that yardwork and housework I was going to do along with my writing this weekend?
I am sick as a dog. I can’t breathe out without hearing a disgusting, watery rattle. I’m coughing my mammaries off. I ache all over. I spend a good majority of this 100 degree weekend on my couch, wrapped in two different blankets and wishing I could run my lungs through a wringer. Housework and yardwork were not within the realm of my abilities.
But I wrote.
I still managed to clock a respectable 2,000 words a day, more or less. And it wasn’t bad. It doesn’t really take much effort to put fingers on a keyboard, and even while I was racked with coughing, I kept on plugging away, determined to get it done.
Nobody’s going to give me a medal for that, but I feel pretty damn good about it. While I feel pretty damn bad.
So….go me! (cough*cough)
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll crawl back under my blankets and set up an IV line of chamomile tea. And sometime today, I’ll put my fingers on the keyboard and write a little more. Because I am a beast. A coughing, hacking beast.