My imagination is broken.
Look, this is ridiculous. My stupid infection won't go away and it's stopping me from doing anything to write about on my blog.
Why am I sick anyway? I haven't done anything sickmaking. No going out clubbing with an insufficiently insulated chest, no persian rugs; I haven't cursed anyone for years, so it's not that.
My sleep is shot and it's taken my frikking writing with it. I mean, my output hasn't gone down (much), but it's just not as good. Maybe I shouldn't have kept plugging away at that stupid story the way I did. I got it finished but now I'm all fed up of writing because I got so bored. Blargh. Anyway it's finished now. Trouble is, none of my other writing projects is any healthier: gawdawful sword'n'sorcery short, couple of Forteany things, some lukewarm SMUT and this thing about people from another world living in London, which is never going to work in a million years but which I can't get out of my stupid head.
Stupid writing. Words are evil.
Oh, and I got a rejection today for a story I was really hopeful about, and which is utterly unsuitable for anywhere exept the ezine that rejected it. Blargh.