It happened again. I got the flu. It wasn't so bad that I was out of it, completely uncomfortable, but it was enough where I had no energy, and nobody wanted me sneezing on them, so I was confined to my bedroom (except when I still had to drive all the kids everywhere after school and watch my son's first football game of the season because everyone else was busy, still, I felt quarantined to my little camp chair on the sidelines, holding my wad of kleenex and shouting, "Go-go-go! Aaa-chooo!")
But for the most part, I've had to be in bed, mind racing. So it happened. Wondering about the book, wondering about the editing. Wondering about the ending of Remnant, and if there is enough plot twist in The Inn, and thinking about the new POV and title of Comes the Sunlight, which is the new title, and then, BAM... I'm in the opening of a new story and scrambling to write it down... dialogue, action, sequence, plot direction. And then, what do you know? The Federal Express guy knocks on the door and hands me... my new laptop. Four days earlier than expected. After the easy-peasy set-up and tucking in my novels from my zip-drive to the HP Pavillion dv4t, I knocked out the first 15 pages I had scratched into my notebook, of a brand new story.
Is it being sick? Because last time I got sick like this, the same thing happened. I had finished The Orchard, and thought there was nothing more in me. The Inn invaded my head as it throbbed with influenza.
So, I guess I am stuck. There is no escaping this writing thing, if you can't escape it with the flu. And the flu can get you pretty much out of everything. I am feeling a little better today, still tired, and I'm going to bed early. Not going to sleep, though. I'm going to write. Because the next few scenes are in my head, and I am loving where they are taking me.
Okay, so maybe there is a little escaping going on.