Tar paper, tiles and shingles.

Do you think it’s possible to squeeze a novel out of getting shingles?

Of course it is. I’ve already got 1/4 of a novel written where the hero has shingles. It keeps him doing his job. Mine will only keep me from work for a day, which is long enough that I won’t infect any of the kids at school with chickenpox.  Since I can’t be known as Typhoid Oldbitey, Ravager of School Kids, I’ll stay away. 

And use the day to write.

However, as it stands, my level of creativity is at about 1 degree above my horizon. Blahness is the mood of the hour.  Oddly enough (well, oddly to me, maybe not to you), I feel compelled to divulge the fact that my first bout of shingles came when I was researching shingles for the above-mentioned quarter-written novel. At first, I thought it might have been psychosomatic, a fitting sort of device for a writer who was trying to get into the mind of a character. Then I realised it was not all in my pointy little head, or Simon’s either. I had a doctor-verified case of something you stick on your roof.

This time, I missed the warning signs. I chalked it up to a busy weekend and eating a hell of a lot of crap on vacation.

Which bring me to the vacation: It’s typical for me to acquire some kind of bug during my vacation, but I think this time the rush of the holiday came so close behind the oral thesis presentation my body was still producing anti-bodies to fight off any nasties. Now that I’m home again and things have levelled off, I’m getting my ass kicked. 

Ok, not quite kicked. More like swatted. I got this bout early and I have pretzels, which you know can fix anything.
Then there are the good drugs I have that will cut short the duration of this, as the doc says "attack."

Meanwhile, let’s hear it for modern science and a twisty bit of snack food originally made by German monks!

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