Our wonderful climatologist
has made a mistake; instead of the coldest winter in ages we have had one of
the mildest ones in recent times.
Despite that I’ve managed to come down with one terrific head cold that
has knocked me out for several days, flat.
As well, the extraordinary high winds managed to blow my computer to
smithereens and it has had to be completely dismantled and re-loaded (or
whatever it is the wonderful IT specialists have performed. In any event, I have been out of commission
for over a week now and I have felt as though my right arm were cut off. How addictive writing can become!)
So while I have been out of
commission I have had plenty to think about and yet nothing formulated itself
into truly cohesive thoughts, probably because I have had so much going on both
at work and at home. True creativity
requires peace and quiet so that the imagination, or the thoughts, can brew
into something wonderful. At least, that
is my theory.
Last night, with all the
congestion on me I lay awake and rather than toss and turn I tried to be still
and get my mind still with me. I came up
with a half dozen stories that seemed very wonderful in the dark but in the
light of day I simply became impatient with myself.
Ah, the life of a bedridden
writer.
Pshaw! Think of Elizabeth Barrett, confined to her
sofa and yet writing wonderful poetry.
Think of our mysterious Emily Dickinson behind her curtain.
What I have is a million
excuses for avoiding my thoughts, however tomorrow is another day.
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