First off, this is not the serious writing post I promised last time. I’m still working on that one. But this one does concern writing—in a bizarre sort of way.
That pesky little internal organ known widely as the gall bladder has influenced my life for a month. Did I acknowledge its power and do the smart thing by adjusting my diet? Did I hie me hence and forthwith to the vitamin store to replenish my long-deleted stock of flax seed oil? Good heavens no! Did I pay for my foolishness? Would there be even the tiniest point to this post if I had? So …
Last Saturday night, I woke just after midnight in pain. I mean, PAIN. My immediate diagnosis was heart attack because I’m just melodramatic like that. Then I realized I knew that pain; it was just registering one bazillion times worse than ever before! Convinced the only thing that would relieve the pain was death, I got out of bed to play Bejeweled Blitz on Facebook. Halfway through the second game, just as a supercallifragilistic power gem exploded, it dawned on me I might be in the early stages of fainting.
Somehow, I made it back to bed just in time to realize I was about to vomit. After making my acquaintance with that fine china bowl, I slithered to the bathroom floor. I do not deal well with acute internal pain; I always end in a state of semi-shock. As I lay there semi-conscious and drenched in cold sweat, 90% of my brain frantically negotiated with my gallbladder, vowing to do anything, everything, to pamper it in the future, if it would just stop the pain NOW.
Then, a scene from the movie Braveheart popped into mind. You know, the one where that actor-I-formerly-respected portrays William Wallace’s death. And the other 10% of my brain said, “Hey, this must feel a lot like disembowelment. Take note of your exact physical sensations in case you ever need to write a scene where someone is being drawn and quartered—or is in severe pain and shock, whichever comes first.”
That, my friends, is when you know you’re a writer.
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