It's the kind of cough that bends you in half, makes your eyes fill with tears, keeps everyone up all night. It's the kind of cough that requires Delsym by the quart. It's the kind of cough that makes you miss a deadline.
I HATE missing deadlines. Hate it. I wrote for a weekly for too long. And now, I am a day behind in getting my MS to my agent. She is wonderful, tells me to take my time, make sure it's perfect...cough, cough...
She doesn't realize I'm not sleeping...cough, cough... and that maybe changing the ending while running a low-grade fever is a bad idea. I can always change it back. Right?
Somehow, no matter how familiar I am with reality, my dream of being a writer ...cough, cough... resembles a fantasy. I'd sit at a roomy desk, positioned in the center of a charming room, filled with pretty things that inspired me. In my dream sunlight pours through the windows. Or, in wintertime, snowflakes drift past. My dream also features a clean house, folded laundry, a delicious and healthy dinner on the table and constant inspiration. Yeah, right. Oh, and I'd be thin and fabulous, too.