by Charlotte Hinger
My shiny New York began with the best of intentions then got off to a dismal start. A case of cellulitis landed me in the hospital for IV antibiotics. It was followed by a reaction to oral antibiotics that I overcame just in time to be plummetted into my usual seasonal allergies.
What allergies? In January? When there's no pollen? Yes indeed. There's a quickening among all the bushes and trees. Go outside and see for yourself. All the little twigs start growing tiny little buds. Actually, apart from my sinuses, it's quite exciting. It's an irrevocable promise that there will be a spring. All we have to do is wait out the winter.
What I do best, is lying around reading books and eating popcorn. But it's not a sustainable life plan, It leads to muscle and mental deterioration.
Today I took myself in hand, vowed to overcome my tendency toward sloth and got back on track. I slipped into my morning routine. I reread the mystery I'm working on and made some progress on the next chapter.
I had a problem. One of the characters--a child--was out of whack. He was saying things that didn't ring true. That's where had I left off before I got sick. I didn't have a single bright idea for fixing this when I sat down. But it came to me after I started writing.
I've been writing for a long time and I still can't explain the writing process. Words come. They always do. Sometimes I think the only part of my body that knows what to do next are my fingers. The brain has nothing to do with it. When the fingers start moving, whether it's pushing a pencil or hacking away at a computer, words come.
My health problem was minor and easily treated. I'm in awe of the writers who have triumphed over overwhelming physical and emotional setbacks.
Stephen King was hit by a car in 1999 and suffered horrible injuries. He had a collapsed lung, broken ribs, a severe head injury, a broken hip, and a totally shattered right leg. His millions of fans worried that he would never write again. He did. In fact he's published book after book since then.
Louise Penny did not believe she could ever write again after she lost her husband. In one of the afterwords of her first novel written after Michael's death, she had a moving account of how it happened. Her typewriter still sat on the table and she passed it every day. One day she simply typed Armande Gamache. She couldn't help herself. The next day she typed one more word. Another the next day. Then she began writing again in earnest.
We are writers! If you think you are not, the fact you read writing blogs tells me you are. So begin. Sit down and just do it. Trust your fingers.
The fingers know.
