It can't come soon enough, if you ask me.
Christmas was lovely, especially with a surprise snowfall decorating the world around me, but the crud came along and smacked me. I wasn't well enough to celebrate with family and...well, even more family, all of whom I love and cherish, so that was disappointing. We've been invited to a New Year's Eve celebration with friends but there's no indication I'll feel better by then, so *pooh*.
(Isn't it cute how there's a little snowcap on my backyard pot? I found it a little less cute when, two days later, it was still so cold that the little snowcap had become a snow hard hat.)
Oh, you mustn't mind me. I'm in a grumpy mood.
Marshalling what little energy I have, I decided to see what the great writers do when they feel ill. It turns out, they simply keep on writing. Surly Muse says so, right here, and SM has never lied to me before. Lucy Flint kind of says so, here, and she's much more adorable than me, so I believe her. Writers Who Kill offer their thoughts here, but the comments that follow are more interesting than the post. Hey, I may be sick, but I'm not dead. I read the comments.
Me, I'm going back to the sofa. If I feel better soon, I'm going to binge-watch Crazyhead on Netflix. The Good Witch says it's like an off-kilter Buffy but British. Sounds good to me.
See you next year.
RSS Feed
