I sit here trying to type a story out. Anything. The words won’t come. Instead I sweat out the sickness that has gripped my body since Saturday. I sit in the clothes I wore all day, that are now covered in dog hair. I think, “I need a shower and then maybe the words will come.” I tell myself that if I keep writing everyday I will get better. Practice makes perfect and even if I have nothing worthwhile to write I should write anyway. It’s what writers do, isn’t it?
This is the first time I have felt better all week, sitting here un-showered, in my dog hair covered yoga pants, in need of a haircut and relieved I only have two more days of work and I can rest some more.
I sigh and contemplate. I delete and re-write. I think “I was a better writer in my feverish, sick, Nyquil bending haze.”
I look over at the counter, the Nyquil still sitting there, it hasn’t made its way to the bathroom cabinet yet and I consider…I decide a shower is a better choice and I give up on writing for the night, I’ll read a book instead.