I was supposed to be celebrating the new book. Instead, I’ve spent the week laying on a couch, my foot on ice and up. Everything hurts, and nothing is comfortable. I was on painkillers the first day. I was trying to figure out how feed and clothe myself while hopping on one leg the next day. It’s the kind of thing that fucks up your whole life. It throws all your carefully prepared plans on the floor and stomps all over them.
So, I didn’t finish that story for that deadline. I’ll finish it and find somewhere else to send it. Once I figure out how to finish it. I don’t have writing rituals. Some things I write in Scrivener, in nvALT, in Google Docs, in my notebook, on my phone. I know myself too well to let myself buy into rituals, so I work hard to stay away from absolutes. I really can write anywhere, at any time, whether I have an internet connection or not. I wasn’t counting on a sprained ankle to come along and screw up my week. But that’s what life does; it screws up your week. Mostly, I just wish I could find a comfortable position. I think that’s life, too.