What a crazy, crazy week and weekend it’s been. The baby fell sick on Friday evening the week before, followed by me catching the same (what felt like) plague Saturday. We were sick together until Wednesday upon which my babysitter fell ill. Out of desperation, I called my mother to come help out on Friday so I could go back to work, and she agreed. On Saturday, she fell sick as well. My coworker that sits across the way was sick last week too, as was my aunt near Houston. Seriously—what the hell?
The virus has run its course now, and everything seems to be getting back in order, but I feel like having that fever burned out my brain. I can write outlines all day long. Lists too. When it comes to meat aka fiction-y stuff like actual narrative/plot, I’m dead in the water without a single breeze to lift my sails.
I suppose I’ll have to ease back into that writing frenzy. Picked up old project with writing partner, although she’s really too busy to worry about this silly elongated project anytime before March. It’s fine. It allows me the convenience and privilege of writing at a casual rate, rather than the speed-track fury for which I’ve been known for. The Muse is fickle and cranky, and is amusing himself with tossing fragmented suggestive ideas my way. I’ve been writing them all in my dump file, hoping they might form a complete picture later.
Much later it seems like.
I was able to do some compiling of ideas Saturday night, but when I tried a different beginning, it was complete yarf. Disappointed, I went back to my lists and again reorganized the opener to the first novel. I should stop picking at scabs and start slicing new wounds. My razor is ready, but the flesh is unwilling at this point. I suppose the Muse will make up his mind on something soon. Until then, there’s always Buffy.