I started a short story. It’s in epistle-style, which I am finding I really enjoy as a way of building tension. You’re really locked into the head of one person and literally discovering information only at the point that the person is reflecting upon it.
But now I’m to the point where something must happen–the climax of the piece–and I’m not sure how to convey the urgency of the situation from a letter to a person I fully intend is there at the climax.
And I swept my bedroom, because I couldn’t stand it, and I was feeling so proud of myself and also a little silly, because, surely, if I can sweep my bedroom, my knee is not so fucked as I keep saying, and I stepped out into the hall and my left ankle just went “blergh” which is the noise of it having a pain like a giant cramp. It wasn’t a twist or anything. It was, weirdly, almost like a charlie horse. It clenched up in all disconcerting ways, was sore for about fifteen minutes, and then was fine.
But I took it as a sign not to forget that the limping I do to make it easy on the right half of my body has consequences for the left side.
I feel like I am, in general, a lazy person. But this is asking me to be lazy beyond my tolerance. I fantasize about walking the dog. I take the long way home from places. Motherfuckers, I even swept my room!
How do people who are cooped up in hospitals for months, like how Patsy Cline was after her car accident, not go stir-crazy?