The Lost Weekend
Where did the past week go? Lots of sleeping, aching, drinking water, aching, sleeping, sneezing, taking aspirin, aching, sleeping and sleeping, with the occasional reading of a chapter or so.
I love libraries and librarians (what writer of historical fiction can survive without Inter-Library Loan, even in these days of the Internet?), but I’m afraid it was a librarian who shared the cold with me. I was at the library on Friday the 13th (ack! No wonder! I hadn’t made that connection until just this moment) and the new! updated! better! self-checkout machine wasn’t working properly. So the librarian came over and leaned close to help. That’s when I suspect the germs made the leap. And in the end she had to check out the books manually anyway.
By Sunday night I was miserable. The rest of the week is a write-off.
I did, however, have some vivid dreams. Some of them weren’t too helpful (Emeril Lagasse as the Pope. No, really, zucchetto and vestments and all), but one gave me a fabulous idea for my next book. Exactly the thing I’ve been looking for to spark the story. Thank you, subconscious mind!
