I am on day seven of the plague. And it is a very great evil. I was supposed to be better today. I was supposed to be well by Monday. I assumed that I’d be well last Sunday. Instead I’m stuck with a cough that reminds me of something from a Jane Austen book. “Oh, yes, Miss Connie, poor dear, she suffers from consumption.” Actually consumption is tuberculosis, which I don’t have. But it sounds good.
What have I done with my time? I burned out on Netflix last week and haven’t streamed a single thing since. Instead, I’ve been making my way through boxes of Kleenex (yes, I realize that’s plural). I’m filling trashcans full with scrunched-up tissues. And I’m pondering how many gallons of herb tea I’ve consumed.
The most challenging thing has been getting the housework done. Yesterday, my minions (namely Matt and Jake) discovered if one goes outside, then one cannot be assigned “laundry duty.” LD is, according to them, a method of torture, which consists of emptying the dryer, putting what’s in the washer into the dryer, putting a new a load in the washer, and most heinous of all...folding the clean laundry and putting it away. Of course, my boys, being the unpaid/slave laborers that they are, aren’t too concerned with doing a good job. At the end of the day, Luke complained, “I got dad’s underwear, Ariel’s socks, and Jacob’s jeans.” I explained that if he started getting my bras, I’d look into the matter. Otherwise, he needed to cope. Beggars can’t be choosers. (Don’t you love it when moms start quoting clichés? That’s what happens when you watch too much Netflix.)
What else have I done besides rot my brain and drive my boys crazy? Not much. I decided to start a synopsis for the platypus (my current novel). A synopsis is supposed to be 2 to 4 pages, double spaced. Seven years ago when I first wrote the platypus, I wrote a synopsis. So I thought that I’d pull it out, dust it off, and it would be ready to go. So I pulled it out. And blinked several times. My synopsis was seven pages, single-spaced. What was I thinking when I wrote this porky thing? I’d need to edit out four and one half pages, minimum.
As of this afternoon, I edited out two pages—a line here, a phrase there, etc. I was feeling proud of myself until Ariel saw the pages, picked them up, and read them. She informed me that the synopsis made my character’s emotional journey seem shallow. I blinked. Yeah, I sort of knew that. But it’s the fever’s fault. When it’s gone, I’m sure I’ll whip that synopsis into shape. Or, maybe I can get my slaves to write it. I’ll say, “Laundry duty or synopsis writing. Pick your poison.” That LD is looking better and better.