My fantasy when I’m feeling my best: That I’ll come down with a cold so that I have to remain in bed, allowing me write to my heart’s content.
The reality is that when I do get a cold, my head is so stuffed that I can’t think straight. My eyes are puffed to slits, my ears are stopped and my brain floats inert in a dead calm sea of snot.
I also can’t lie in bed because the dogs want to be up there with me, which wouldn’t be so bad except that Mo, the 6 month-old Goldendoodle, wants to lie on top of me. As in: on top of my face. Sniffing my nostrils. Taking a lick of them to see what delectable delights are hidden up in there.
Bed is not the place for fiction writing, anyway. Not for me. The only good writing I’ve done in bed has been radio ads for marketing clients. In a prone position, I seem unable to daydream ways to extricate my protagonist from his latest conundrum, but I can always summon a turn of phrase that will aid my clients in hawking diamond rings, aluminum siding, or farm fertilizer.
I think it’s time for a new fantasy, wherein a writer’s garret replaces the bed. I like the garret part. But please, no Victorian illness like consumption. I simply can’t write when I’m sick.