Apparently all I needed to cure my writers block was a good old fashioned plague. Yeah, who knew?
The HypnoSpawn (aka my son, for the uninitiated) got it first, though my scratchy throat started before his bubbling percolating nose. Ever try to suck snot out of a 15 month old's nose with a bulb syringe (aka The Boogie Sucker)? I liken the experience to wrestling a bear while trying to fit tab a into slot b, and all the while someone is having their arms and legs sawed off with a blunt steak knife right next to your ear. And no, I'm not exaggerating.
A hundred zinc losenges later and this damned sore throat is still working on me, in spite of my orange juice consumption, and now my head is doing the floaty 'I'm filling your sinuses with an extra special surprise' dance. I can already hear my nurse mother's voice on the other end of the phone line asking 'What color?' .... Only the tissue knows for sure!
In all of this, however, it seems the writeres block is fading while my symptoms are ramping up. A good dose of DayQuil and a ticket to ride the Q Train ought to fix my creativity right up. Which is awesome, since there are way too many looming deadlines for anthologies I wanted to submit stories to, and I'll be needing to write those stories.
Take, for example, my latest post over at the Second-hand Sarah Blog.
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