Am sitting here with yellow goggles on, hoping that by wearing these and limiting my exposure to the blue light of the screen, I won’t get a migraine and will be able to write some more.
The other night I tripped my way to hospital, all wailing agony, brain on fire too-large-for-my-skull pain ripping my head to shreds. I’d spent quite a few more minutes than usual on the laptop and boy, was my body revolting. Several hours of hell later, after some soothing injections and two litres of IV fluids, I was sent home to get some sleep.
It is then I get the hospital hangover. Where I feel useless and emotional, and wander around the house strained and exhausted wondering when I’m going to get better. The answer is – if I read the literature – possibly never. Possibly soon. Possibly in my imagination. No one knows for sure. Everyone who is ill prays for an answer: hopes that somewhere busy little intelligent men and women are beavering away doing research on our specific illness which will magic up a cure. Knowing that in reality, there isn’t much money in that, and more and more illnesses are being discovered, without a cure in sight.
So the idea is to get myself some blue light blocking glasses from the eye-man (currently got industrial goggles from the sheet-metal shop, tinted yellow), and hope that nothing as wretched as the other night happens again. That it will be possible to write my novels again. That this really isn’t the limit of a life – because really, what is the point of just existing, if you aren’t doing very much – you aren’t following your passion and dreams?
So you see, the emotional hospital hangover has not left me. When thrown into the extremes of life, where the body is determined to tear itself in half with pain and the violence of throwing up, I am left with a definite feeling of having missed my proper exit. From gym junkie to house mouse in seven long and achy years.
But books won’t write themselves, so here’s to yellow goggles and long chats with characters who tend to want to wander off to do their own thing and who suffer my interference stoically, but with grim determination not to conform to whatever it is I have planned. I know that I should exert more control over where the book is going, but just for now, while my body is recovering and my mind is too tired to argue, the characters get out to play and run amok. Such is this writer’s life!