Last night I got home sick and went right to bed. I did get out of bed to eat dinner, thanks to Dak, but then I went back to bed, thinking I’d take a couple hour nap, then get up and take my medicine and write, then go to bed for the night. I’m sick with some sort of stupid virus, and I just wanted to give my body a chance to try to get ahead of it with some rest.

Instead I slept all night. I didn’t take my medicine, I didn’t get up to wash up, I didn’t write. I slept until this morning.

I felt better, obviously, but I’ve been reflecting on missing my writing and what that means – I hadn’t missed a day yet, even when I was feeling badly. I don’t feel much of anything about it, I guess. Maybe it’s because I’m sick and tired, but I’m not feeling guilty or disappointed or anything.

Maybe I don’t feel badly because I am making it up now and I’m going to try to write again later. Perhaps its because I say to my students so often “just do what you can with what you have,” and that’s where I’m at with this. Maybe it isn’t a big deal because I know I’ve developed the habit, so not doing it one day because of extreme exhaustion isn’t such a big deal because I’m not going to quit.

I don’t know. But I’m back and it’s still on. I don’t think I’ve broken the streak.