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.