This is why I don’t take writing breaks. I’m fading. I’m tired, I’m hot, I could care less. I don’t want to read, write, watch Doctor Who, go to bed, do the dishes, take a shower, lay in my room and curse the heat. None of it.
Then again, maybe it’s this stupid boomerang cold. Or allergies. Or whatever’s congesting my chest and making me sneeze.
I am so over being sick.
Whatever it is–probably a combination of both things–I feel like shades of grey. Like the victims of the…whatever they were, in His Dark Materials. The Spectres.
Ooh, that gives me shivers. We’ll stick with “shades of grey.”
That’s life without writing. Grey. But now I don’t have any damned ideas.