After all of the anxiousness of awaiting publication of a new book, the days after are filled with the heavy noise of...silence. Now what? Up til now my days had the anxiety in them of trying to fix the Table of Contents so that it links correctly, getting the special pages formatted correctly, reading and re-reading looking for typos and other editing mishaps. Then, it goes to print, and...crickets.
I am not a fan of lonely. That's way different than "being alone." I love being alone, but lonely just sucks. And it doesn't help that I'm coming down with something and I'm coughing and can't breathe. It's raining a beautiful, steady rainfall and more than anything I want to take my clothes off and go lay on my upstairs balcony, closer to the stars and let the rain wash away all the bad stuff and leave me refreshed. I didn't ask the doctor about doing that, but I'm guessing it's not recommended when you have bronchial issues. Just a guess. Although I'm not a doctor and don't even play one on TV.
So, that leaves TV. And nothing catches my interest. I tried to watch Bones, but frankly by the time it was over I not only didn't care who murdered the requisite corpse discovered in the first few minutes, but I was ready to line all the characters up and shoot them. The Middle was too silly. Sherlock, for once, didn't hold my interest. Whose Line Is It Anyway is always good for a few laughs at least, but tonight not even Ryan Stiles (whose baby I would still have, even though there would be a star in the east and wise men would come bearing frankincense and gold...but wait....there's myrhh) could make me grin.
I'm just in that time-honored tradition of writer's funk.
I wish I drank.
THAT'S MY STORY
I've never been normal. I've never tried to be. I can't imagine anything more boring.
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