As I’ve bemoaned elsewhere on the interwebs, I have managed to break a toe. The little one on my right foot, and the fourth toe I’ve broken in my accident-prone life, proving yet again that when God was handing out gross motor skills, I was definitely elsewhere. Probably falling off my bike or tripping down the stairs … or violently stubbing a toe. :-\
According to the doc, it’ll take a good six weeks to heal. I’m supposed to stay off it as much as I can, which you’d think would really make me sit down and write more than ever, right? Well, yes, but I’m also quite amazed at how much a busted toe is messing with my writing.
No, I don’t type with my feet.
What I miss is my daily walk.
Nine times out of ten, when I walk, I’m able to nut out the plot problems that have stumped me, or I suddenly hear those lines of dialogue that are perfectly right, or I’m struck by those “Eureka!” moments when a character suddenly reveals the Really Big Secret they’ve been keeping … none of which ever seems to come to me through grimly pounding away at the keyboard for hours on end, hoping that sheer “butt-in-chair” tenacity will solve everything.
So I’ll have to come up with a substitute for the next few weeks. Some sort of mindless activity where the conscious mind can disengage, allowing the subconscious and all its problem-solving brilliance to come to the fore …
Fridge magnet rearranging?
“Keeping up with the Kardashians” watching?
Hmm. The choices are scarily endless.