Scalzi’s thread about what you need to give up to write (spoiler: screwing around watching TV and stuff all the time) got invaded by someone who is either a total emokid or a troll indistinguishable from one, blathering about how one must Suffer in order to create Art.
Naturally we all made like he was a piñata, but in retrospect, perhaps I was too hasty. I woke up at about 2 a.m. today to discover that I have totally jacked my neck and my left arm from the shoulder to the elbow*, so with the help of a lot of ibuprofen I can manage to do things that don’t require me to raise my arms or carry anything over a couple of pounds in my left hand. In other words, I’m in fine shape to sit propped up in bed with a laptop and type. This means I am actually getting a little writing done, when the painkillers are working.
So, suffering = Art. When do I get my six-figure advance?
*No, I have no idea how I did this. No, it didn’t keep the kitten from purring directly into my ear like a buzzsaw and demanding to be petted. At two in the morning.
Sherry and I could bring up a bottle of Port if PTHG and yourself want some company Saturday night.
I would love the company, except that I would have to have a miracle recovery between now and then, and it’s not looking good.