I'm in the middle of a four-book marathon to meet my deadlines for 2011's books, and it's a grind. My day job has been uncooperative in terms of allowing me a full lunch hour in which to work, and it can be hard to write at home with a mother, a sister, two nieces, and various dogs, cats and kittens vying for your attention while you're trying to take a little time to just meet your daily page goals.
I was starting to wish I could just take a break, do nothing but lie around and sleep for a few days.
On Sunday, out of the blue, two ailments struck at the same time: stomach flu and cellulitis in my left leg. The next four days were a blur. I wasn't able to eat the first three days and ended up losing 12 pounds. (Have since gained back some weight, which I'm fine with, because sheesh, that's a lot to lose in three days). And after the stomach ailment passed, I still had a red-splotched, painful and swollen legs (not to mention a boatload of antibiotics to take).
At least I got my days of lying around and sleeping.
Writing is a job. It's a joy sometimes, and it's a pain sometimes. It's frustrating, exhilarating, scary and rewarding. But you never quite appreciate just how much it's a part of you until you're lying flat on your back, sick as a dog and chained to a barf bucket, and one of your first glum thoughts is, "All this downtime and I'm too sick to write."
Do you ever take writing for granted?