Writing demands a certain amount of self-absorption. You have to believe that your story matters as much as – or more than – anything else. While you are writing, standards fall away. Politeness, nourishment, basic hygiene all go by the wayside. I remember being on deadline while in charge of small children. I told them to leave me alone unless there was blood or fire.
But for all your attention to yourself and your story, sometimes life gets in the way. Doesn’t have to be blood or fire. Melanie and I are committed to our co-write. She’s busy, but I have been absent for a while, due to a sports injury.
That sounds manly, eh? When you read sports injury, you think: blown knee, dislocated shoulder, concussion.
Nope. I fell down.
Seriously, that’s what happened. I was jogging gently down a hill near my place. The going got steeper and icier, and I decided to run faster in order to stay upright. Bad decision. I took a tumble, landing somewhere near my, ah, nether region. I rolled over, groaning, and have been in some degree of pain ever since.
Turns out I’m not 20 years old any more. Or 30. Or 40. Or 50. Or … I could go on but I’ll stop there. Sheesh!
Do not worry (if you were worrying). I am fine. I seem to have pulled a muscle or two. I will recover in a few days. Meanwhile, I am wheezing and taking pain pills. And not writing.