How chronic illness affects my creative process

and how to crawl out of an artistic rut

It is morning in Los Angeles after the first rain of the season, most days on my city street, the mornings are painfully loud, but today it is completely silent as drops of water drip down to the cement from vibrant bougainvillea petals. Today, like most days, I sit down at the breakfast table and open my notebook, I stare down at its empty pages and pick up a ballpoint pen, I touch the pen down to the paper and scour my brain for something to write, “It rained last night, I gained three pounds, I should walk more, I should eat less, it rained last night.” I set the pen back down as a sharp pain jolts through my wrist and hand, that’s all for today I guess, I close the notebook and walk back into my bedroom, I pull the covers over me and turn on a television program.