Well, two things really.
First, I hate it when I tell someone about a new idea that I'm thinking about using in a story and they go, “That's just like (fill in blank)” . . . I have no idea where the period should go there, sorry.
Second, I hate it when a cold that I thought was on the out comes back around with a vengeance.
These two things don't relate, except for the fact that right now I hate them both. Well, I'd probably loathe them no matter when or where I encountered them, together or separately. Pretty much they must consider themselves my enemies.
Let's go back to the first, shall we?
I have this idea for a short story. It's twisted, a little bit sick and very much not my style. In the end it could practically be a literary *hack* piece. I've never harbored the need to write the next great American novel. Anything I write is meant to entertain people.
But this would be different. It would have *gasp* deeper meanings. Layers. Like an onion and all that.
It's a good idea. Which is the only reason I want to write it.
So I tell my sister and our hairdresser about it the other day, and they're both like, “Oh, that sounds just like . . .”
Drat. Really? I supposed from what I know about the . . . story that it is similar. Which means I now have to go read . . . so my story will be different. Lucky for me the library has it on CD. Good to know, but it hurts the ego to know my idea isn't as original as I thought. Everyone let out a dramatic sigh with me.
Dumb virus. I had a bad sore throat last Friday, so I proceeded to drown it with as much liquid as I could drink. Got lots of sleep and felt almost all better on Saturday. Well, I didn't get much sleep on New Year's eve, or the next night or the night after that. Mostly due to the lingering effects of the cold. Last night I finally bought some night-time cold meds and slept like a baby. Because I used the meds, not because I bought them.
This morning I wake up, feeling better, but with a distinct lack of voice. And I don't mean character voice in a story. No, no. When I do get a word or two out I sound like a man. A really big, throaty man. “Hey baby.”
Oh darn, I shouldn't make myself laugh—it riles up the cough.
I dub it the ninja cold. If only whacking it with a bow staff would make me feel better.