The writers with kids will understand.
Mrs. Underground and the two tax deductions loaded the car and headed south to San Francisco.
Leaving m alone. For several days.
Everyone with more ideas than time knows the fantasy. I was about to live it.
My creative possibilities? Endless.
I planned an orgy of writing, sketching, thinking and even painting. Maybe even take a swing at a multimedia thingee bouncing around in my head.
By Monday afternoon, I expected to find myself in possession of an Emmy, a Peabody, a Nobel and many lesser awards.
Instead, I find myself the owner of a fever, a headache, sinuses so stuffed with gunk my head’s essentially solid and many lesser aches.
I’m not straddling Olympus like a creative colossus; I’m buried under a pile of blankets on the couch, my creative output reduced to this:
Because I’m selfless, I’m going to say it. Save yourself. Go on and create cool shit all weekend long without me.
Keep writing (and taking Wellness pills), Tom Chandler.