So I feel full-body miserable as I write this, but I am very glad I don't have Covid-19. Just a regular old nasty reaction to double antibiotics for, surprise, SIBO! Small intestinal bacterial overgrowth. The combined methane and carbon dioxide gas levels in my guts blew past the expected 15ppm to hit 99ppm. Add a competing Candida invasion on top of that, and I'm all peaches and cream this week. Seriously, 2020, you were supposed to be a lucky year! Sweet serendipity anytime now, thanks.
The world is scary on both a local and global level with the pandemic in full swing. I know the months and year ahead will be full of drastic changes for everyone. I am only starting to understand what that means for me. Frankly, I feel too physically and mentally exhausted already to deal with the full ramifications right now, and am trying to quarantine myself as much as possible to protect my erstwhile immune system.
I haven't been able to write much lately, and I truly wonder what my stories mean anymore. Their worth both to myself, and to readers. I won't force myself to write just because . . . because I had a grand author's goal . . . or a gossamer daydream. When I feel healthy enough again, I know the stories will be waiting for me to say their names. Right now I have to be patient with my healing body. Oh, and scribble lots of story notes! And listen to the Writing Excuses podcast. And a million and one other sparklestarsome little things that add up to a day, a life, a single crystalline wish that we will find our way through this, together.