The Little Zombie That Could

Man down! Man down! I repeat, we have a nonoperative combat unit! Send backup! 

Eldest came up to me, coughing like a plague victim. "My lungs hurt."

Oh, goodie.

My throat started aching in sympathy. This means we're five for five with the strep, if that's what she has, and I'm willing to bet she does. Being sick, or dealing with a sick kid who can't sleep, is draining. I feel like a zombie waking up every morning, running on a few hours of sleep, and dying for a chance to snore for eight hours.

On top of the lack of sleep I've been piling poor weather (cold and rainy days make me glum) and that whole depression thing, which is a zombie in it's own right. Really, it's not the little cloud or black jacket that stalks you in commercials, depression is an invisible zombie that attacks without warning. Everything will be fine, and then my eye is twitching and I'm telling myself how fat and useless I am. Washed up at thirty with no hope of a career. Stupid depression zombie.

I feel like I'm lurching to the finish line of my to-do list, shambling, dragging a leg, dropping my arm every few steps, and being distracted by everyone else's brains. Shiny books! Shiny movies! Shiny games! Brains! Ideas! Hopes! Dreams! Exclamation mark abuse!

But, you know what? I'm still lurching forward.

I may not break any land speed records doing it this way. I'm not going to be popping out new novels every month like some authors who I'm convinced have a dungeon full of typing minions (I'm so jealous). But I'm getting there. Books are being written and edited. Motivations are gelling. Queries are out.

Brain dead zombie or not, I can get this done. *I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.*