I am sick. It started on Friday, with a sore throat. The sore throat continued on into late evening on Sunday, whereupon it blossomed in both directions (precocious little bastard) and took up residence in my head and my chest. Coughing, sneezing, and wheezing commenced. I went to work on Monday, with hope in my heart that I would feel better if I only tried very hard to feel better, and a blithe disregard for the way immune systems, viruses in general, and my respiratory system in particular actually work.
I got through a day of work, though I can only apologize profusely to my colleagues for the noises they must have heard issuing from my cubicle. Then I went home, nearly passing out several times on the subway. For once, being jammed so close to fellow commuters was not an imposition bordering on intimacy; it was a very good way of not falling down.
Staying home was the way to go. I did a bunch of work, though. Seventeen submissions were evaluated, more carefully than usual, as the evaluator is ill. (I wasn’t delirious, though. Some of them actually were that bad.) But on the whole it was really pleasant to be able to work from my bed, on my own computer, and not have to worry that my computer is going to freeze completely because I clicked from one window to another too quickly. I felt as good as possible, anyway, with my brain doing the backstroke in a sea of peppermint tea.
By the time 8pm rolled around, I was done. Miserable, a victim of the galloping sniffles, I decided the only thing to do was get into a hot shower and try to forget my troubles. Since remembering my name was rapidly becoming an issue, perhaps I needed something else to do. I wanted something to read in the bath. Something that was the equivalent of an ice cream sundae for my soul.(Putting an ice cream sundae in my body, at the moment, is contra-indicated to the nth degree.) So I got into the bath with Stephen King.
No, not him. He’s happily married and in Maine. Just something he wrote. On Writing, his nonfiction about, what else, fly-fishing. It’s one of two books of his that I’ve read. (The Gunslinger is the other one.) I think he’s inspiring. In terms of his body of work, that’s like saying you’re an expert on the Lost City of Atlantis because you’ve been in a bathtub. Well. I have been in a bathtub, and I claim no knowledge of Atlantis. None of Stephen King, either, except to say that his book about writing is one of the most inspiring I have read on that subject, or any other. Reading in the bathtub is also something not to be missed.
I would write more about this, honestly, but I can’t make coherent sentences come out anymore. That was the last one pickles.