For the past couple of weeks I have had a cold. Actually, two colds back to back. Usually I’m a healthy person I am a terrible patient that moans and feels sorry for herself until my family orders me to bed. Probably so they don’t have to listen to me anymore.
I have been prescribed cough medicine laced with codeine that works beautifully in the ‘not coughing’ department. However, anything else I’ve tried to do that requires mental effort, such as reading, writing, holding a conversation or brushing my teeth effectively doesn’t work. This leads me to a pointless but fascinating question: how the heck did so many writers write anything when they were sozzed to the gills?
Seriously, how? During my enforced down time I looked up a couple of infamous drinkers and I’m astonished how they could come up with beautiful prose while either drunk or hung over.
As I continued to read biography after biography I learned of lives cut short, personal and family despair, talent going to waste. These authors’ histories are so sad I’m uncomfortable naming them. Who am I to comment on another’s anguish? So as I get better I’ll take my medicine, be grateful that my cold will end and once again I’ll feel as though my brain and I are on speaking terms.