Normally, I write here. At my desk. Yes, that tissue covering, medicine holding, cough drop containing space is my desk. My writing desk. Notice my laptop is nowhere to be seen (It’s on my bed, where I’ve been laid up since last Friday).
My writing space is looking sick, reflecting the way I feel. I have my glass of water, my tissues, my books (Stephen King On Writing and The Forest of Hands and Teeth and my book club book Expat).
Then there is my meds. Sweet, sweet drugs of wonder. They haven’t made me feel any better, but they make me sleepy and so I nap—a lot. It’s better to live in a medicated fog while trying to recover from cold/flu symptoms. It is. It really is.
AND in the background—Alias, season one. Good stuff. Not sure why I never watched it when it was in syndication. I like the spy stuff and the idea of a skinny girl kicking the trash out of every huge male that comes her way. I still wonder why they had such a crappy clothing budget though. Because poor Jennifer Garner always had to wear shirts that were too short and showed her belly. If they had a better budget they could have added four more inches to her shirt and she would have been warmer.
When I’m better, I will clean off the desk and get to writing my last chapter of my zombie western romance. Just one chapter left for a completed first draft. My head’s just not in the game right now (See above about medicated fog. Lovely, glorious medicated fog).