There are times that an author shouldn’t write. Well, not on their story, at any rate. Today is one of those days for me. You see, I have a cold. I took something to make it all better. My head is swimming, my reason has flown the coop and I’m basically stupid.
Anything I put down today would be a waste of time. It would likely pull my plot(s) off track, alter character perceptions, and just derail everything. Being sick kinda sucks, but it made me realize something.
I didn’t get where I am by putting off writing. I made it a priority in my life, pushing other things out of the way to make room. I can’t remember the last time I watched TV. I’m certainly not current on the news. I have a brain filled with strange trivia information – like the average bleed-out times for most major arteries, or what colors birds can see in – because I had to research that for a book.
Everything I do revolves around my writing. My husband knows this. Thankfully, he encourages me. He’ll lock himself away playing video games, make dinner and bring it to my desk, or any number of things to keep me “in the zone” and pumping out the next book. My day job has hours that are convenient to write around. My hobbies are planned around my next release. My world revolves around my books because I am an author.
That means, for me, it’s easier to find the right mindset to write. I don’t get interrupted anymore. I don’t have people think that I can answer a million questions while planning a complex plot. I no longer need to explain that distracting me from the words on the screen means that I have to backtrack and start all over. (A few brilliant tantrums fixed that very nicely, thank you very much.)
And now, this. Stupid medication making me silly. I have time to write. I have the urge to write. I’m not gonna do it because………Oh, isn’t that shiny? I’m sorry, was I saying something?
You get the idea: me dumb on drugs.
So, hopefully, someone is out there writing the next masterpiece. I’m gonna go crawl back into bed and pretend to be a slug.