Today there was a mote of feisty sunbeam in my heart as I drove under the monorail underpass on Desert Inn. Had I abandoned NaNoWriMo, as predicted? No, wait, I had an idea. An actual idea. Oh, the fast (yet plodding) NaNoWriMo process I'd adopted wouldn't do it justice but - whoa - an idea for fiction? That just doesn't happen to me.
(Or to whoever made Good Luck Chuck, half of which I suffered through last night. Wait, I take it back: the idea of it was interesting - but the execution that was unwatchable. Bland characters, and turtle pacing whenever Jessica Alba appeared. If anyone wants to write the "Why We Download" manifesto, start here.)
Despite another bad day at work, I was pleased at the thought of coming here and getting to pound around on this idea. Just writing makes me happy. I hate that I have to periodically reaffirm to myself that any writing here is really just for me and I shouldn't feel like I have to apologize for content/form/style/etc., but seven (nearly eight!) years later and I still do, so there you have it.
But then I came home, felt cold, couldn't get warm, got under five or six blankets (well, laid there while whinnying at Mike to please put another one on, and another), checked my temp (96.5 - what do dropped temps mean?), and napped for a few hours. I seem alright now, except for a weird sore muscle-like pain that started this morning. I'd tell you more, but then everyone would be squicked out. If I wanted to squick you out, I'd point you here (SFW).
The evening passed, some of it good and homey (me playing "pasta station": freshly sauteed mushrooms and onions with three-cheese tortellini and tomato-alfredo sauce), some relaxed (catching up on Curb Your Enthusiasm), and some well-intentioned (trying to read this again - maybe the HTML version is not the way to go).
NOTE: Due to the excess unhappiness with my career expressed in this post, portions have been removed until the problem is solved.
Despite the flash of an idea, I was dull on the way home in a way that a pumpkin spice frap can no longer help. In a way that could not be reversed by turning up the Dschinghis Khan. Not the Moskau song, but this one:
One turtle heard pickled squid is new, indeed.
NOTE: Due to the excess unhappiness with my career expressed in this post, portions have been removed until the problem is solved.
And so, this post has no postcard, no NaNoWriMo, no exploration of the previously pondered Anne of Cleves Society (not its real name)... nothing but the endless hand-wringing and head-banging that has been keeping me from writing anything, lest someone just hand me a gun and offer to prop open my mouth. Anything to still these angsty, repetitive, helpless fingers.
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