I tried. Believe me, I tried to like this book. I was already almost half way through it, and then…
It didn’t hold my interest anymore. I tried to pick it up after I finally got a light for my bed, but I didn’t care. I didn’t want to know about the witch and her husband, the Strange and what it wanted. I eventually didn’t care about the lone-wolf (literally) hunter, either.
That’s too bad.
It seems my muses don’t like me sick.
I have been feeling out of sorts for the past month, sleeping a lot, even falling asleep at work. My writing has suffered. I can’t focus.
Today has been the worst so far. Dizzy, joint pain, earache, waking up at 3 a.m…called into work this morning which is the first time in years. Hopefully I will get some amoxicillin and then go on with my life.
But why so tired? Why so out of breath when I do the simplest things? Why so dizzy? Do I have to pass out in order for anyone to do anything?
Sorry. Will write about writing next time, I promise.