The Stars and the Cookie Jar

Well, I am surrendering to it. I have chicken soup, various -Quil products, and tissues galore. And I am going to sleep, and sleep and sleep and sleep until the ache in my body stops. I wish I could sleep until Thursday when my girl gets here, but that won't exactly work, as for at least four hours of that I have to be awake, on my feet and thinking (in Sharon, MA tomorrow). And I should be writing, but I am so exhausted.

Catch you all on the flip side.

I want to finish my novel. I was supposed to have finished my novel. But it's taking a break while I'm sick, and it was taking a break before that. It's hard work, writing. I wanted to at least post a progress report, but I mean, what progress? What I write, lately, doesn't please me. And I know my slowness can be ascribed to my general and enervating perfectionism -- 'The Storyteller' has been finished twice, I just wasn't happy with it either time, because I know what I wanted, and the chord wasn't hit -- but I feel dumb and clumsy and invalidated. Or something. Wah, too tired.