On Being Ill

The new broom aspect of the New Year isn't really working for me. I am ill in that useless way that isn't even dramatic enough to be called 'flu' with any seriousness. It's MUCH worse than a mere cold, though, and all thoughts of svelteness, self-improvement and being vegan till six o'clock have been put to one side till Later In the Month. Even I know I won't be perfect on January 11th, and in the meantime I am hoovering up fats and carbs like Bridget Jones in dumped mode.

But... and there is a Pollyanna moment coming up so brace yourself... I haven't stopped writing. If I'm too ill to go out, drink profligate coffee in cafes, or clean the house (ahem) then I have eons of time on my hands. Not all of this can be taken up with  warm baths, hot toddies and whinging, and so I am powering through my reading list for my next novel. (Only stopping now and again to wonder why my head is hurting so much, and then putting it down to Lemsip poisoning.)

The 'writing' stage I am at now mainly involves reading and making notes, so it's not a full-on brain dump. It's more like doing a crossword puzzle without any squares to fill in. And the most important thing is to keep taking on the information - particularly when the work-in-progress is a historical novel. (This one is set in the Restoration period, about which I knew Nothing till about last July and started reading about it.) In fact, I get most of my reading done when I am either ill or on holiday, and as there are usually other things that I meant to do on holiday, mild flu/an extremely bad cold is my reading mode of choice.

Insane, I know.