Well, yesterday I went back like a scared dog with my tail between my legs.
Actual photo of me.Why was I scared you ask? Are these friends mean? No. They are awesome and kind, but I knew they would hurt me. And they did. With these instruments of torture:
And this, too:
Even though I used the machine of death, I didn't end up looking like the girl in the picture. I feel cheated. I also feel like this:
But it's all good. I know the pain will fade in another day and slowly, ever so slowly, I'll work my way back to where I was a year ago. And I won't need vitamin I (otherwise known as Ibuprofen) forever. Just for today. And maybe tomorrow. And only when I'm awake and breathing. And maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to say goodbye to those pesky pounds that came to visit during my year of slackerness. And yes, I can use a made up word because I'm a writer and we have a special license for stuff like that.
What does all this have to do with writing? Way too much. I talked about not writing for a while when Kid D was down with the nasties. The trouble is, if you spend too much time away it's hard to get back into it. Your creative muscles atrophy and get grumpy. Your muse gets fat and lazy and doesn't show up when you sit down to write, even when you promise her chocolate. I know because I set out a bowl for her, and she never came.
It's hard and painful at first to crank out those words. The computer starts looking like this:
I mean this:
Well, I'm off to work those writing muscles because I will not go quietly into the night. And muse, if you're out there, you better show up, or I'll hire one of these:
You have been warned.
