In the week between Christmas and New Years I had Plans. I reviewed my 2022 calendar and made notes in the one for 2023. January 2022 had virtually no notes at all except for little To Do lists for a one-week writing retreat I took at an artists foundation outside of town. It was only about 10 miles away but farther than I had been in two years and a nice way to remind myself that I might have chosen not to travel but I could still write. So, I decided in 2023 I would kick up my game and actually finish the complete draft. Finish it enough to send it to an editor by the end of the month. Starting Monday, January 2.
Then I got the flu. Not Covid, but every other strain that was out there, one at a time, in succession, and overlapping.
I am an Aries so at first I kicked and screamed and felt sorry for myself and sank into my misery and told myself I would never write again and employed various other helpful strategies. I couldn’t think, anyway. I couldn’t remember the names of very common things. I wanted some of those plain, crisp European biscuits (Petit Beurre) and I could not remember their name. I could only attempt to describe them using halting one-syllable words, like “plain” and “crisp.” Eventually I remembered them and found them and got them (thank you, Instacart) and slowly my systems began to recover and my brain to come back online.
So now I am just weak and struggling with patience and eyeing the 2023 calendar that I brought onto the bed, along with my draft that I had the foresight to print out in the optimistic week of planning. Other writers are dealing with this challenge, I know that from the writers discussion groups, so I document this saga in hopes that others may at least know they are not alone.
Better still, my exhausted brain is beginning to nudge me by saying, “You can write your way through this. Write your way back to health.”
I am still on that January schedule.