Sometimes it's writer's block. Then it's a self-inflicted impediment that keeps a writer from, well, writing. Obviously I am capable of typing, but not as much as I usually am. Let's blame my old TV set which decided to die on Saturday. It went all green. Then it went out. End of story.
Luckily I have a spare TV stored in the basement. Three stories down (or up, depending on how you want to look at it), no elevator. So I hauled the TV upstairs and while it's a small one it still weighs at least 20 pounds. Next morning my right hand was slightly hurting. By evening it had spread to my elbow. And this morning I woke up to realize that it reaches up to my shoulder. It's not a horrible kind of pain, but still, doing things with my right hand or arm, like lifting a mug or grabbing something or even writing on the keyboard will make it a bit of an ordeal.
So, today's post is a bit shorter than what you're all used to, but oddly enough it is related to my life as a writer, which for the time being will be reduced to a life of simply plotting without actually typing.
Worst of all, I haven't even moved the dead TV from where it's standing, because it's so darn heavy … let's just hope this doesn't translate into one of my posts later in the week being a short “ARGH!” typed with a pen between my lips that I had to aim at the keyboard for typing, because I pretty much pulled not only another tendon, but the whole rest of me.