Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing—Benjamin Franklin

Greeks and Germ Warfare

I had hoped to have more time to work on my writing this year. In fact, that was one of my big goals. I'm not going to lie... at this point it doesn't look terribly promising. So far this year we've had a lovely cold that turned into the croup, some sort of a stomach bug, and currently what may or may not be roseola, not to mention having been in a state of teething constantly. Poor Little can't catch a break. I end up shaking my fist of fury at nothing in particular quite regularly these days so that these silly bugs will lay off for a while at least. Not surprisingly, it has done no good thus far. (For the record, we are on the mend now and miraculously only have some residual sniffles from the aforementioned croup cold and are waiting to see if the roseola rash shows up or another illness comes our way, but other than that we've come out with lungs intact, significantly more tired, but relatively unscathed.)

Anyway... as a result of the lack of time (which I don't see improving anytime soon even without every germ in the world in attack mode) I've come to the conclusion that I want my stories to write themselves. How is it that you can have the contents of an entire book in your head, but not seem able to get it onto paper? It seems a bit messed up. Maybe part of my problem is that I want to read my books more than I want to write them. I mean, I love writing, but sometimes I wish my books would spring forth out of my forehead fully formed Athena style.


Bonnie said...

Haley, I just got caught up on your blog. Don't stop writing you are terrific and I love this blog!
And you probably are married to the funniest guy alive! But then all you Lowders...are pretty darn funny!

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