I really hate being sick, and I suspect I'm not alone. You have a million things to do, a million people to please, and you're going along just fine, until suddenly you wake up one morning and it hurts to swallow. Suddenly you have something to do here, an assignment there, and a shift to work until nearly 11 at night. And all you want to do is curl up on your bed and cough until your sides are sore.
I would love to be able to write more when I'm sick, but I usually spend about five minutes pounding out two or three paragraphs before I put a manuscript up. I really miss it and I have all these ideas itching to get on the page, but I'm just too tired and weak to put them on the page. The longer I feel bad, the more piles up. What might be even worse is the boredom. I don't have the energy to stay online or read for long stretches of time, and there's not much on TV on weekday mornings (though Hallmark has started airing Frasier reruns from 11 to 1 -- that's always nice).
But there are advantages. I've had the time to knock out 3 library books in the past week, including the appropriately named Fever which, like its prequel, Wither, was so intriguing I found myself forfeiting both TV and a nap to keep reading. I finished it in a day, a task I don't think I've accomplished since The Hunger Games. And hey, author Lauren DeStefano got the idea for the books while she was in bed with the flu. Maybe the next Great Story Inspiration will come to me during the next Dance Moms marathon or fitful nap.