Twelve weeks has never seemed so long. I had shingles in my left arm and it left me with continuing neuralgia and effective medication has proved elusive. The side effects kick in before each one has reduced the pain to manageable levels so we keep trying different ones. Currently, if I do nothing, I can just cope. Ten minutes of typing are rewarded with several hours of increased pain.
I had to bail out of the edits of The Sapphire Sea because I couldn't type and this put the release date back to November and I'm reduced to editing what I've already written of my current WIP in very short bursts. I cannot remember another period in which I have achieved so little.
I began by reminding myself of my contemporaries with much more serious ailments and this worked for a while (It still does on a conscious level). The next stage was how fortunate I was not to be suffering the same condition before modern medicine--another attempt to impose conscious control. I still kid myself that being able to write would allow me to relegate the pain to unimportance, but I'm beginning to wonder.
I've endured discomfort before and broken through pain barriers to achieve what had to be done, but it seems age reduces that ability.