Fiction, Life, Real Life, Writing

This is when you know you’re a writer

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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Block, Fiction, Novel, Words, Writing

Pain, loss of words, and nudity

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.]