I have a cold, which means I’m a little hazy on almost everything at the moment and my thoughts shoot off in all directions and my dreams are intensely vivid.
Illness can be useful to a writer. Hyper realistic fantasies, a blurring of the lines between imagination and reality, becoming aware of parts of your body that you never really noticed before until they started to scream in pain.
And yet writing is also a physical task, and we need the strength and calmness to actually be able to write down those wonderful and twisted things of illness.
Many of my favourite writers suffered from illness and sometimes could do nothing but spend days lost in their own minds, all their senses heightened, their imaginations on fire as the fever rose. But they couldn’t write it down until they were well again.
It’s only a cold and will be gone by next week. But in the meantime, I have to try and remember what this felt like, so I can reproduce it.
Sent from my iPad