have enough problems getting between me an Tubitz and Mergenstein. I’ve got model railroading (twice a week, and pretty much every other weekend). I’ve got Astronomy (though the skies have been shit since June). I’ve got game writing (Solar Trader is about to release). I’ve got cycle commuting (and that poor tandem we haven’t been on in ages!). And I’ve got household chores to work on (after I finish this, I need to go cut back an encroaching hedge). So, lots of stuff.
I was thinking about writing the other weekend. Yes, it was Thursday. Was going to give platlettes that night at the center, take it easy Friday and then break out the story on Saturday. What could be better? To get ready for the draw, I had a full wrap at our building’s cafe.
By Thursday evening (while at the blood bank, where I couldn’t do platlettes) I was feeling “off”. Went home from work early Friday, my guts leaden. And the weekend: cramping, farting, and a full loss of appetite. Ugh.
I sure didn’t feel like writing. I didn’t feel like anything. Except bad.
Told my work-day running partners I wouldn’t be jogging anytime soon. And that was fine. Back before I started with the burning agony of jogging under a Florida noon-day August sun, I used to write at lunch. Since I wasn’t jogging, my freed lunches could be spent writing. So I brought the minitop and settled in on Monday (over a homemade PB&J in the break room; botulism me once, shame on you…) to write.
And that’s all I did.
Nothing. No connection with the craft at all.
I knew I still wasn’t at the top of my game, but it was a little strange to see how quickly that muse could vanish. I simply couldn’t work up the passion to write. I couldn’t even fake it. It’s stunning, once you have it and lose it, how hard writing is.
And it wasn’t just my project – I had a submission to finish up along with a short request. But regardless of need or length or deadline, nothing came out (the opposite from my digestional tract, I can assure you). I just couldn’t work it up. I wanted Hemingway. I got… meh.
Brought a book Tuesday and had a nice quiet time. Wednesday, with the literal ill-effects fading, I brought mini and book. Tried to edit the commission and found myself being useful. Did a little fictional writing on request. I wasn’t brilliant, but I was producing. And that’s good.
But if it made one thing clear; there is a tenuous relationship between health and the creative muse. A little pain, a little discomfort, and its gone.
Oh, and another thing is clear: steer clear of the cafe (I’ve read the health inspector’s report and it’s horrifying).
So now I’m catching up on my blogs. Good thing I keep a backlog (no pun intended).
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