I don't do colds. Have no patience with them, no interest in pampering myself while going through a box of tissues. Nothing sexy about the croaking coming out of me and not at all understanding of those who give me a wide berth. Colds seldom venture near my skin, and I don't think I have one a year so why did this sucker come visiting when the weather's great and I just finished a story and its deciding what to tackle next time?
Now there's the real problem with a head stuffed with cotton. There's absolutely no room for IQ. I've read a couple of books in the last five or so days and hauled myself to our cabin so I could some repair projects followed by collapsing. The repairs were possible because how much intellect does it take to scrape paint? I tried to explain the plot of one of the books to my husband, tried being the operant word because truth be told I couldn't hold onto the twists and turns.
And there's no holding onto the plot of what I think I'm going to be working on once my IQ returns (please, please). Its a darn good thing I'd jotted down my main characters' primary goals and problems. I'll be creating a fictional world for them but know better than trying to go there right now. Mostly I'm being gentle with myself, not sweating what I can't do anything about.
But if anyone sees any of my gray matter, please kick it my way! This duh feeling is getting old.
Vonna
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