Never get smug about how smoothly things are going with your NaNovel. That's my diagnosis for the latest form of writer's block: Hubris. I'm sick.
By this time each year, I usually have had a flu shot, reminded by the health drive at work, and prompted by my provider. Didn't happen this year (yet), so I expect I've got a touch of flu. Fever, nasty emanations from both ends, sweats, buzzy head—it reads like list of Ebola symptoms. Good thing I'm not the panicky type!
Flu shouldn't be a big deal—I've managed to keep writing (though not noveling) through crippling sciatica, shingles and surgery. Except, for some reason, this year. I just can't stay focused.
I did get a few hundred words written his morning, though not in the "stream" of the story. Three scenes that occur later in the novel just popped through my fever and insisted on being written today, no delay. So I still have poor Tuck in the ER, the MacGuffin barely defined, and Art hasn't even shown up in Indigo yet.
But Max Stillman's mother has had a battle with her furnace. Bev Merrick tried to call her daughter from the ranch, and learned that the phone lines were down, snapped by the icy rain frozen to the overhead wires. The Merrick ranch has no cell coverage, so that means she's effectively cut off from town. And a new character, as yet unamed, may have lost his eye to a snapping bale-wire.
I'll take a yogurt-break, then come back to it later today, when my head stops buzzing. I'll be there, Art, I promise!
Total: 8840 words.