Family flu weeks make it difficult to think and difficult to write. But I am a writer. I believe I remember that clearly. In fact, one could argue that I am a published author. I found this pile of books laying around in my sick room that may actually count as evidence. But it’s hard to think. It’s hard to write. I have been working on gingerbread writing. At least, I still have the recipes in my stupid old aching head.
These two gingerbread novels are nearing completion. I mean, I have written the entire second draft of Recipes, and I am closing in on the end of the final draft of Baby Werewolf. They are two interlaced novels, each with a different focus, and each with a different style, one a humorous Gothic horror story, the other a fairy tale with Nazis and naked girls in it. But both happen at the same time to basically the same characters, though the shared scenes have to be reinterpreted through different viewpoints in each book. See, now, that’s entirely too complicated to think about with a headache.
But I am temporarily fritzed out in the brain department. I don’t even know how I am writing this. I guess the autopilot is driving the word-mincing machine.
So I will hopefully be writing more coherently and publishing more books in the near future. But for now, we are ill. I don’t have a fever, yet. But they do. And I need a bit of rest.