The Writer’s Well

The subject heading has a double meaning for me. First, I am the writer and after a week of sickness, I am on the road to recovery. Also, this writer’s mind is overflowing with ideas and goals for the coming months.

It’s strange, but while I was sick, I felt as if my entire being was depressed and not simply my immune system. I couldn’t find the motivation to make it off the couch in search of yet another clear fluid I must consume. So, for all of Tuesday, I didn’t bother, thinking that by Wednesday I’d surely feel better. But of course I was wrong. On Wednesday my fever went up a couple notches and my back started to hurt – a sure sign of a cranky kidney. That right kidney, the same one I sliced open in a car accident, is always the first to tell me when something’s wrong, sort of like my conscience for better health instead of moral judgment. That cranky organ is still pinching me a little, letting me know that I need to drink more, but the clock is telling me that if I drink any more today I run the risk of having a “water” dream (and no one wants that). So, I’m ignoring it for now.

I went to the doctor on Wednesday, and after two hours of tests, he wasn’t quite sure what to tell me. He said it sort of acted like the flu, but not quite (he tested to make sure). It sort of acted like bronchitis, but not quite. He wanted me to rest as much as possible and try to get my temperature back to normal. Drink plenty of fluids (yeah, right). And stay home from work.

I hate to say it, but the part where he said “Drink plenty of fluids” made me feel guiltier than the part about missing work. Even though we need the money (which I hate saying), I was happy to have the excuse to do nothing. As gross as it sounds, it was nice to have the option of showering. On Thursday, I opted not to, but still changed into clean clothes. As I teach one of the second graders I work with, “Girl rule number one: Always wear clean clothes.” And I did, even if only to curl up on the couch for the day, nodding off every once in a while.

On Friday, I was feeling better. There was even a fleeting moment when I felt a bit of guilt for not being at work. But it passed so quickly, I hardly recognized it. I checked my email instead. That was when I decided that, sick or not, I couldn’t let a whole week go by without trying to achieve my dreams. After all, I’d just spent nearly a whole week feeling sorry for myself and sleeping and coughing up the stuff that should never be in a person’s body in the first place.

So, on Friday, I sent out a query letter. That letter jostled the plug at the bottom of my writer’s well. I had tossed it down a while ago without thought and over time, ever so slowly, the well kept draining like there was a pebble wedged between the seal of the plug and the bottom of the well. For the longest time, I didn’t know what could be happening. I went to the well, expecting to see my own reflection, to see in my own gaze all the stories and characters waiting to leap out, but instead I saw no water, no reflection. I checked and found the plug chain was still attached. Everything should be in working order. I have all the ideas. They haven’t gone anywhere. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what happened to my well.

But the moment I clicked the SEND button, it was as if the seal slid into place.

Now, this writer’s well is overflowing again.