Yesterday, it finally stopped being a chest cold and became a head cold, which for me means it's on its way out. I'll spare you the gory (literally, I had a nosebleed this morning) details but I woke up this morning feeling unable to leave the house, so I called in sick.
For reasons which will send you to sleep, I had a bunch of photographs from the Savoy auction on a USB key which had to go up to our head office today, so around mid-day I dragged myself up the stairs and emailed them.
Now, earlier this month someone asked me to write a story for an anthology they're putting together. I haven't told anybody else about this, especially pds_lit, because for the past few months I've been wondering whether I was able to write at all any more and there seemed no point in getting people's hopes up.
When I was asked to write this story, I sort of picked and prodded at something, but it's been sitting on the laptop for a couple of weeks, going nowhere, and this lunchtime after I'd sent the photos and read The Guardian and The Times online, I opened it up and looked at it.
Long story short, I've been writing for the thick end of twelve hours and I've done slightly less than four thousand words. I'm exhausted and I feel absolutely awful, but I honestly didn't think I could do this any more and it's a nice surprise to discover that I can.
I can't promise that this is the end of a long fallow period, but I feel more hopeful about writing than I have for some considerable time. Oddly enough, it's been a good day, considering.