Today I managed 238 words on a short story. I sqooze it in after making a dish for the potluck tonight and going to the potluck. It's been that kind of a day, all eaten up with chores and essential things. Such as getting a flu shot.
Flu shots are important for writers. In the popular vision of a writer, she works along in a turret, eating only delivered take-out food. She's not at risk for getting the flu or any communicable disease, as you can't get a disease if you never see people.
This is complete and utter fantasy. Most writers work in their spare time, in stolen minutes between work and family obligations. If they are lucky enough to be a supported spouse, then they get all the spouse care, child care, and pet care duties. More plots have been worked out in traffic than in the silence of a room. And when a writer gets the flu, those duties don't stop coming.
If a writer gets the flu, writing time is what is sacrificed. And recovering from the flu takes days -- or several weeks, for us asthmatics.
I'd rather give up a day or two of productivity, in the hopes of not losing a month.
Thus, while the flu shot