These past few weeks the choice to write was taken away from me.
Migraines, never lurking far, gripped me in their gnarly claws and set nausea and pain to high voltage.
In my mind’s eye I saw my characters throw up their hands and say, ‘Not again! This novel is never going to be finished if she keeps this up.’
I hope they’re wrong.
I want to finish a first draft by the end of the year. These migraines are not welcome and really need to find someone else to plague.
I’m worried because I saw my novel’s female protagonist packing her beach towel and clothes in a bag and head for her car.
She is living on a beach so where is she going? This isn’t something I’ve written.
Can she be heading off in search of a more reliable writer?
After a romantic evening out with the male protagonist she was ready to admit she was falling for him. But was it too late? She’d steadfastly maintained her disinterest for so long. There was heat. So much heat!
I had plans for them, but now these plans had to wait.
Migraines and writing go together like a tornado and a lantern party.
Even running the story through my head is stymied by the intense maelstrom going on. Thoughts get whipped up and tossed away. So, I wasn’t progressing the story and understandably my female protagonist isn’t happy.
I want to shout out to her, ‘It’s okay, I’ve got great things planned for both of you, just stay with me…’
But I can’t shout, it hurts my head.