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I Was Going to Blame the Book

I was moderately pleased with my blog post yesterday, especially since it was not a Monday Middle-aged Musing. I had high hopes of writing something not contemptible today.

To help matters along, I left the book I’ve been reading in my bag. It is a true crime book, and I’m really having a hard time putting it down. I thought it would help if I refrained from picking it up. Oh, I know, leaving it home would have been even more helpful. I’m only human, after all.

I wrote a couple of paragraphs on my novel before work started. I spent the first couple of hours at work thinking about what I would write. My brain hummed along. This was going to work out fine.

Several of you are probably rolling your eyes (you know who you are, don’t deny it), saying, “And then when she got to break she couldn’t write anything. We’ve HEARD this before!”

Well, I didn’t exactly write nothing, but I could not be pleased with my lead. I decided to just write whatever I could and try to cobble it together later. One contemptible sentence. One not so bad (these are my impressions at the time; I haven’t gone back to check on their veracity). The thought occurred to me, “Wow, writing sure is different from reading.” Then, “Well, duh.” The post certainly was not working out well. I wrote a little more on my novel.

I really wanted to get back to that true crime book.

I went back to work determined to think some more about what to write. Really, this is the method I have been using since I got this job and usually it works out very well. Think while working, write on break.

And then I started to feel ill. Steven has had a frightful cold this week. He went to work Monday feeling just awful. Well, I can’t say he never gave me anything (actually, when spoken it’s “never gave me nuthin'”).

There was nothing I could do but suffer. The only thing that made my day the least bit bearable was reading that damn book on breaks. Otherwise, I would have put my head down, fallen asleep, and embarrassed myself either by snoring or falling to the dirty floor.

As the afternoon wore on, I couldn’t understand how I could possibly look normal, feeling the way I felt. Why wasn’t my head eight times normal size and shaped like a balloon? Why wasn’t my face at least red and throbbing in front of where my sinuses were? I comforted myself with the thought that maybe it was not a cold after all. Maybe it was allergies. Isn’t there frost in the forecast? Relief could be a mere day away.

And that is the, as it turns out, extremely long story about Why I Didn’t Write a Blog Post Today. Hmm… perhaps not as contemptible as I had feared.


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