In which I relace all my tennis shoes.


Benched. Sidelined. Confined to the couch with tissues, tea, and many many cups of chicken noodle soup. That’s been the extent of my running of late … and my writing.

Hard to think with a head full of mucus. All that comes out is… well, let’s just say it isn’t something anybody wants to read.

And so I’ve done the writing equivalent of peevishly sorting through my running gear. I’m sitting at 10,509 words thus far in my WIP. I had 10,5012 yesterday. I’m not even certain that you could call this ‘editing’. Again, peevish.

I did manage to take a walk earlier today. (A real one. Not metaphoric.) Perhaps that means I am on the mend? I have had my manuscript open for a majority of the day. I go to it when I am between cups of tea, between Tweets. I’ve so far only scrolled about from front to back and back to front again. But maybe tomorrow… maybe I’ll lace up and hit the pavement once more. After all, I did just manage this post.

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