Writer's journal, entry #52

(I'm not doing much besides write lately, so you get what you get...)

Writing, feverish.
Literally.
The week has been long and the sun shines bravely through the open window. The week to come is going to be even longer. Rent is probably going to be late. Again. I may have bronchitis, too early to tell. No worries-- if King can write in spite of a broken hip, I can write in the face of bronchitis. Heck, I could write in the face of zombies if I had to. Sometimes I draw pictures on a mini whiteboard, and that helps. Sometimes I fall asleep and wake up with the words all lined up in my head:

"The sun was already baking the top of the city, sliding gold heat down the walls. Soon they would all be drenched in it."

"She sat with her knees together in the frame of the doorway, watching the boy trudge past. Behind her, the cook murmured instructions while her subordinates thumped dough onto flat stones, splashed mint tea into tall pitchers and scraped nut paste into serving dishes."

Being a writer is fantastic.

Sunday word count: 899 and climbing.