After a hiatus, I consider writing again

"You'll never even know that you are taking the antibiotics," the doctor said, and given my size (not quite 105 pounds) and my history with medications (abysmal), I thought, hmmm.

So that perhaps I am the only person ever on whom antibiotics worked a strange kind of un-magic, or maybe it's the heat, or maybe waiting for literary news plays tricks on my mind, but I have not been me for awhile.  Yesterday it took me seven hours to write a client proposal that should have taken half the time.  Two days ago, I was stumbling about in the opening pages of Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury (This is Benjy, I kept reminding myself.  You are not supposed to understand everything at once.)  Every night now, I have either not slept or had terrible nightmares when I tried.  And writing a book, or even a page of a book, seemed a task that only either a fool or an infinitely smarter person would undertake.

Today I am that fool (I know I am no smarter).  Today (give me an hour or three, to warm up even more to the notion), I am going to see what happens when I stare at a page and ask myself, Okay.  So.  What in the world happens next?