I could blame the lack of blogging on my job. I could also try and blame it on the amazing bronchial infection I acquired for the entire month of September. Still recovering from it - it was nasty in all sorts of ways.

I’m tired all the time and, though it wasn’t Covid, I know people who had Covid who recovered in days. Did I pick the wrong virus?

I jest. Covid isn’t something to fuck around with. Some days in late September, when the antibiotics were making me all manner of bleurgh, I thought this thing was here to stay. But I’m slowly coming out the other side and realised a few things:

It’s hard for me to watch any streaming TV when I’m sick. I just don’t (sorry, Picard) engage.
Day sleeping is the best (night sleeping, not so much).
If I can prop myself upright and have a blanket and tea and honey on hand, I can write. I wrote an entire piece during this time.* 16k words. Done.
Big dogs need walking. They get downright surly, sulky and develop a pall of resentment over their eyes when they don’t get a decent walk once a day. Fair enough.

I wrote the piece, yes, but this story or concept has been writing itself in my head for months. I need to think about a world and its characters a LOT before putting pen to paper. I’m a pantser through-and-through, but if I haven’t “written” a couple of drafts in the old head-cloud, had some conversations with the folks who are going to be in the eventual pages, I don’t start. I take notes by hand, I dictate a sentence here and there in emails to myself, but no proper writing until I’m comfy.

So this piece became a real story within a few days, but its bones were laid months before.