Yesterday I stood up too quickly after putting on my shoes in our mudroom. I hit my head on the corner of the hat shelf. It was a pretty hard knock, complete with cartoon stars encircling my head and the sound of twittering blue birds. I sat down with watery eyes and took the three minutes I had to spare before leaving to pick up Little Miss Sunshine to Google “symptoms of concussion.”
(Apparently using a computer is no-no if you have a concussion. How are you supposed to know that, without using the computer? Chicken and egg, people, chicken and egg.)
I had a rager of a headache all day and got a nice goose egg but otherwise, I seem to be recovered. My professional football career will not be affected in the long term. I’m back on the roster.
I was reading this post by Tudor the other day about how writers need to kind of get over themselves and just sit down and write. She didn’t mention me specifically in her piece but it seems like it was written for me. This November has been cold and grey, colder than most, greyer than most. Maybe it’s the aging, maybe it’s the lack of focus around here, but something has made this month chilly in every sense of the word.
But I do feel a softness in the wind these days. A changing of the tide. A desire to just sit down and write.
Seems it only took a literal whack to the head to get me going again, however slowly.