The In-Between

I've been flitting above and around what needs to be done. Sometimes I swoop down to pick low hanging fruit, but mostly I'm too high for science. And tired. But then, I think we're all tired.

Crunch time at work. More doctor's appointments. Submitted my play to two places. Now we're caught up.

After too many pills and needles and vials filled with blood, the doctors (there are four now) decided I don't have Cat Scratch Disease. Whatever it is, it's viral and sneaky and going away on its own. There is still the thyroiditis and pills to keep my heartbeat steady and slow. Normally my pulse is over 100 beats per minute, but the pills drag it down to 80.

I am reading Philip Pullman's "His Dark Materials" trilogy. It's one of those rare series that hook my skin and tug and poke and demand attention. It's magnificent.

It's Sunday. At 10am I went to work. I left at 4pm. I drank too much diet Coke. My head hurts.

There are books on style and structure I've got to read. I put the subject in the wrong place. My sentences are passive. My words don't flow. My outlines suck. It's frustrating because it's not about writing, it's about my ego. I've got to get past my ego. So much of this now is learning how to listen. And rubbing it raw.