I am amidst a gentle kind of sickness which makes me embarrassed for the kung fu I’ve missed, for the lethargy in which I’ve indulged. There are few acute pains. Little actual suffering. I can’t taste, but some have argued for years about my lack of taste. I only notice my inability to breath when I try, so that’s not so often something I notice, either. The aches, the stabbing, sometimes twisting, sensations in my joints more go than come. I mostly feel like a deadbeat, not a convalescent.
I’m getting a bit of my brain back together. Words seem less like same-poled magnets than they did. I’ve done some plant things. I less often stare blankly at objects without seeing them while a blurry desert wind blows between my ears.
I got an acceptance letter today. “Panvermiphobia” is to be published in the Kaaterskill Basin Literary Journal. Such works out well. I’ve only recently begun simultaneously submitting, not out of any sense of duty or honor for potential publishers, but because my own ability to keep submissions straight, any litany straight, especially while sick, is wanting to nil. “Panvermiphobia” had, this week, been rejected by the other magazine at which it was still active. It’s simultaneous submitted-ness resolved without my intervention.
The period when the most recent writing action is an acceptance is very pleasant and I hope to enjoy it for some time longer. I’m not sure why, but yesterday’s rejection of a different piece bothered me. It could be that I really thought the piece fit the journal, or the mounting feeling that I’d have to seek the sort of terminal advice that begins with a query: “how long should one go without publishing before accepting that he isn’t a writer?”
That question’s been pushed off a bit, at least. The rest of the wonder will have to remain a mystery.
I look forward to getting back to work. I miss writing, I miss most being in the midst of a story, not the stalled point at either end when I’m looking for what to do next, but the open productive field in the middle, where the only thing that fetters me is my cramping fingers. I miss that. I want that back.
I can do well enough without the cold meds, so perhaps I won’t need to take them anymore. There’s one fewer hobble. Once I clear this last few sticky tendrils from my head I should be right as rain.
I always do like the rain.