I’ve been sick for the last week and a half, nothing serious, but enough discomfort to make me want to lie around the house and do nothing. After a day of that I was going crazy and forced myself to do some chores, do some crossword puzzles, watch some TV, anything to stay active.

It was hard. And remarkably, something I didn’t want to do, was read. I always have a few books and magazine lying around waiting to be read, but for the last few days I had no desire to pick anything up. I never thought that would happen to me.

And, worse than that, I didn’t feel like writing.

God knows, I never thought that would happen. I’ve written all my life and even when I’m spewing out garbage that I eventually discard, I feel like I’m accomplishing something. But for the past week and a half I didn’t want to write ANYTHING.

It was agony.

I’m finally feeling a bit better and have plopped myself in front of the keyboard for something other than solitaire, and it feels great. If I’ve learned one thing, it’s how important writing is to me.

I hope I never spend time away again.