I spent the weekend sitting in my husband’s leather chair. It doesn’t fit me, my feet don’t reach the floor when I sit in it and the back is too high, but it’s the only chair I can sit in without pain. For the past two days, I’ve had a pinched nerve, disk, something, that causes me real … breathtaking … pain when I stand for more than three minutes.
Ordinarily, I wouldn’t complain because I would be writing anyway, but that’s not happening. The words won’t come. I know why. And I know this drought will not last. But for now, I can’t write. That’s not to say I’m not typing anything. I’ve typed a couple thousand words this weekend, but will any of them end up in my novel? Probably not. They’re just the product of the logical me, pretending she can write fiction.
The real me, the one who can write, is confused, in hiding, treating herself to wine, and orange chocolate sticks, and visions of a certain young actor in a BBC production. All of him. Every single, gorgeous inch of him. (I considered accompanying this post with a photo, but I’ll let you dream your own.)
Which brings me to the last part of this post title … why is America so prudish about nudity?
[Disclaimer: disclaimer: I am not advocating that family programming should include gratuitous or sexual nudity.]