Illness and Fiction Writing

I swear to god I was legitimately sick last week.
What all transpired was like something out of one of those Chaos Theory movies like Meet the Parents. I had three tests and a paper due in a span of three days. I was all prepped to study and be academically awesome. The night before the first test, I got smashed in the face (metaphorically) by a cold.
Shit definitely happens.
One should rest if they have a cold, I really couldn't with my multiple jobs and scholastic obligations. I did everything I had to and by the time I got to Thursday night after finishing my final test (a fucking lab exam), I pretty much collapsed for the next day.

I missed last week's blog due to the fact that I've gotten into a pretty good habit of doing them the day before the class and that schedule was thrown the hell off.
Fiction is a tricky mistress. I have a lot of trouble starting writing than actually continuing. That's my one huge gaping weakness. I can't start. I can continue, I can eventually finish, but I can't start. It really sucks. Now that I've become more busy, I don't have all the time I used to have where I could just stay up late, listen to music, avoid communication, and write. That's when I would be most productive. Ideas would come to me and they wouldn't rot. I could actually flesh them out in a place that wasn't during a bullshit Lit class while my teacher pronounces Odysseus as "Odd-diss-seuss."
Maybe this is all a metaphor for why I was always a better relief pitcher than a starting pitcher when I played baseball.
Or maybe I should pat myself on the back for coming around and seeing creative writing as a hobby and not a potential living.