I have a mutated germ, a hybrid crossover of tuberculosis, the flu, and a common cold. Last night I sat in bed sopping my nose with one hand and reading a book with the other. I read blogs until my coughing made my screen blurry with mutated germ spray. I figured it was in poor taste to sneeze on my cyber friends, so I opted for a real page-turner and about finished Stephen King’s On Writing.
I fell into a restless slumber, continually disrupted by fits of coughing up my left lung, only to wake at 4:20 am with the thought, I Must Write. In my feverish opinion, writing for magazines is a little like playing dress-up in my daughter’s room. If I want to be a ballerina, I simply twirl in my tu-tu. If I want to be a doctor, I throw on a white jack and prod a bear’s ear. If I want to be a good mommy, I rock a baby doll.
Magazines want experts. If you want a magazine to purchase your writing, you must be an expert. So before the sun rose, I checked to see if my stretch-marks still cut a path across my abdomen, and I became an expert on cultivating creativity in
I won’t bore you with the details, but I took inspiration from my cow. Now you can’t wait to read it, right? I know.
Despite teetering on the brink of pneumonia, I feel accomplished this Friday. I may only have a rejection email to show for my blurry-eyed efforts, but at least I did something.
Now it’s past noon, my house is filled with four children that sound like forty, and I’m making maccaroni and cheese. I have high hopes for this weekend. My son’s birthday is tomorrow, we have a road trip to an Awana competition tomorrow, and I am expecting a house full of boys on Sunday.
Maybe I’ll wear a party hat and become an expert on kid’s birthday parties. Who knows. The possibilities are as endless as my stretch marks.