Bed-written
I’ve been suffering my usual summer sinuses this past week. Lots of stuffiness and sneezing. It always seems to come this time of year, just at the start of school, and lasts until Labor Day. Then I get a few good weeks before the leaves start to turn and then we start again.
I’m not writing to complain, but rather to comment on how many authors come to writing through illness. Fred Dannay (1/2 of Ellery Queen), Anthony Boucher, Margaret Millar, and many more. Most of them came to it by doing lots of reading while they were recuperating from a disease or operation or they’d suffered with chronic conditions for years. From reading so much, they soon discovered that their own imaginations were as active and creative as the writers they were reading. And voila, wonderful mysteries were born.
Sitting here sneezing, I wonder what exactly is it that caused these people who were ill to drift towards writing. One reason for me was that I had hours upon hours of time in the house. Left alone with my own imagination, I created characters and worlds to amuse myself. After doing it for so long, I wanted to amuse others as well.
The sick time also gave the writers time to read. I don’t know of a single writer who isn’t a voracious reader too. The time inside gives you something to wile away the hours, lost in a good book.
I’m going back to my chicken soup now, and a great read (*** currently reading Vespers by Ed McBain.)
