Usually I am the one who rather enjoys being ill, at least once I’ve gone past the pain stage. I get to stay in bed, relax, read and not give a damn about the outside world. Except the part that is eleven years old and lives with me. The part who is now old enough to want to take care of me when I am sick, who goes out to fetch ice creams to soothe my throat. Usually, I am seized by a burst of energy and rush back out into the world filled with new plans and mad schemes. But not this time.
This time I didn’t plan or scheme, I simply read books and waited to feel well enough to go back to work. It felt all wrong. It still feels all wrong. I had been so good at blogging every day, but ever since I was ill I can barely bare to look at the damn thing. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I seem to have lost all interest in promoting my book, I just want to spend time writing it. Which is fine, but I have trouble finding time for because I’m helping my parents move, looking after friends’ kids, and so exhausted when I get home from work that I can’t even think straight, let alone create. I don’t even feel like baking at the moment. Something about me just isn’t me right now.
I love watching spring unfold, seeing the trees burst into bloom and their blossoms fall to the ground with each little breeze. I want to write it all down, get away from it all and just tap tap the words out. I don’t know what has stolen my energy away, but I have to get it back again. Get it back so I can write it all down. Or bake it all out.
I had an idea for a new book the other day. Maybe that one can find a literary agent.
One may dream. Especially on beautiful spring days.