I hate being sick.

I've had a cold, or bronchitis, or whooping cough, or something nasty like that for the last week. And the week prior to that I just wasn't feeling myself; probably this stinking thing brewing away in my body, chuckling madly, waiting for just the right moment to strike.

So it's been about two weeks and, though I'm bringing up phlegm and I'm not sneezing a million times a minute any more, I still don't feel good enough to really get anything done. There's housework galore and laundry everywhere and lots of mini projects that I was just getting to... and none of it is being touched. I'm laying around, watching TV, reading and coughing until my head hurts.

Believe me, it's not as fun as it sounds.

But at least I started writing again today. I haven't touched my keyboard with any intent for over a month. The thing that stinks about this is that I'm so close to the end of my first book. And I've had about three more ideas for other stories that I've jotted down but haven't begun to flesh out. I'm frustrated with not being "on my game", and there's a million other things waiting in the wings for my attention, but they're just not getting done today.

Tomorrow doesn't look good, either.