Saturday morning, I was bitten by the bug. Not a bedbug from the Waldorf-Astoria. Not a West-Nile-Virus-infected mosquito flitting about the heartland. Not a butt-biting bug sent by karma to restore balance to the universe. THE bug. The urge to write.
A plethora of submission ideas surged through my head. I grabbed my little notebook the boys gave me for Mother's Day, and jotted away while waiting for the shower to warm up. Wrote 676 words as my hair dried itself though the courtesy of evaporation. Composed one story while driving to town for a 44 oz. Diet Coke. Squirreled away three blog post ideas for the future. Polished up some tarnished, dusty old cliches. Coined a few new words. Awarded myself the unused 2012 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, before remembering that I don't write fiction, then rescinded the honor, plucked that feather right out of my cap.
It might have just been my thyroid medication.
Still, I have been writing this weekend. Meeting more than merely my self-imposed, two-blog-posts-per-day, no-consequences deadline. That the laundry remains undone is of no concern to me. I can toss in a load overnight, and dry it in the morning.
Pardon me. I've got to get back to some submission pieces. Nothing lights a fire under Val like a rapidly-approaching deadline. And a 44 oz. Diet Coke. And those thyroid meds.