I may have mentioned this before--
There's such a thing as writing injuries.
I thought I was alone, and it was just because of the weight, but I saw Jeaneane Frost talking about it on Twitter.
Writers can fuck themselves up by sitting down, staring at a screen, and making their thoughts into words for other people.
She suffered from anxiety that was rough enough to stop her heart. Other writers have written through pneumonia, injuries, and chronic conditions that would make your blood run cold. Listening to a writer with a chronic joint condition talk about what she has to do just to write makes you realize what dedication truly is.
My worst story is at the end of Forever Promised. I crawled into bed with pinkeye, bronchitis, a fever, a strained achilles (from the way I sit), and a UTI on its way to my bladder. Mate was like, "You done?"
"You're never doing this again, okay?"
And mostly I've kept that promise. I mean, as squirrelly as my brain truly is, I've made it a point to take time away from my computer, to spend time walking the dogs, to spend time in the pool, to spend time working on the house and with the family knitting, so that I'm not the unwalking undead at the end of every book.
This time... well, it was a little different. There was recital/rehearsal etc, Mate was gone for a week and then another day, and Father's Day and our anniversary at the end of the rainbow. So, at the end of HomeBird I was a little... iffy.
And then I spent recital getting up and down from one of those camp chairs that will wreck the stoutest back.
And now I can't move my head.
Lots of sleep, lots of motrin, it will get better.
But in the meantime...
If you see me on social media, most of the time I'm in bed, and I'm on my phone.
And now you know.
Writing injuries-- not as uncommon as you think.