It's been almost a year since my last post. What happened was, I began writing a short story for a competition. The story can be found here: Black Powder. I really wanted to do a good job, and had very little time to do it. I asked for beta help from a half-dozen people, many of whom did not even know I was writing, so this was their first experience reading my work. It was also my first experience having my work read by anyone except my mother, without the comforting blanket of anonymity.
Furthermore, it was my first experience submitting creative writing to be judged. I didn't expect to win, but I wanted to be sure that I did the best I could anyway. My goal was to practice being rejected, on a smaller scale, so my first rejection experience would not be on my novel. I figured I would be better able to withstand rejection of a project I'd only spent a month on instead of one I'd been working on for years.
At the same time, my sister came to visit. Now, I love my sister, and her family, but I find the lot of them extremely tiring and stressful. Minette is getting better about it, but she's always been very pushy. She wants, maybe feels entitled to, a level of intimacy between us that matches what is shown in movies and TV between sisters. I'm not able to provide that for her. She is just too raw. It hurts to open up to her, not because she's mean but because I'm fragile. But I tried anyway, since I so rarely have the opportunity.
The climax of all this was the worst illness I've ever had. Nobody could figure out what it was. I was just too tired to move for a month and a half, and my throat hurt like a blazing sun. The doctor suspected mono but couldn't prove it.
I got back on my feet eventually... except not really. I used to get sick maybe once a year, if that. But last fall, I got three colds, each one precipitated by a stressful day or night of bad sleep. All it took was a tiny trigger to break my immune system's pathetic resistance.
I also had pain in my hands and wrist and thumb if I worked too long or too hard. And then in December I broke my finger. It has taken months to heal and it's still not better, it still hurts. And then I got a bartholin's gland cyst, which I do not recommend googling, and which was by far the most painful thing that has ever happened to me. That still hasn't healed, either.
Clearly I'm not yet recovered. I feel better, and look better, but I'm brittle. And because I'm so worried about getting sick again, I am loathe to do any more "work" than is remotely necessary, and try to conserve every ounce of energy either for making money at my job or physically exercising to regain my strength. Writing, or thinking about writing, scares me. I'm afraid I will get sick again.
Oh, and the contest? I didn't win. So all of the suffering was for nothing. Except, hopefully, that I will handle it better next time, and not get cancer and die or something.
Two weeks ago, I got a book on repetitive stress injuries, hoping to improve my typing stamina. I found a set of movement exercises designed to keep nerves healthy, and the pain in my thumb left that very day. It hasn't come back for more than a twinge or two on occasion.
This is very exciting, and leaves me with no more reason to fear the occasional writing session, now that I know I am no longer destroying my hands every time I type a key. I've started writing again. I posted a chapter. Nobody read it. I'll write another.
