OK, so we got through Thanksgiving and the birth of my grandchild. Naturally, I woke up today with the mother of all fever blisters and a head cold. My husband reports that I snored “like a buzz saw” all night long. I am not in a good mood.

Some writers say they have to write through anything short of double pneumonia. All well and good–these writers probably have deadlines. The rest of us get to talk our sorry, sniffling selves into sitting at the keyboard, armed with Dayquil and a huge box of tissues, trying to pound out a few words.

Even the cat is avoiding me. I smell like Vick’s, look like Rudolph and feel like someone (probably the cat) has been sitting on my head. So how many words will I write? Will I get pulled over for writing-while-cranky?

One good thing about cranky writing, at least when I do it, is that I tap into what I really think and feel. I read about an actor who claims that being angry makes him a better actor. Why wouldn’t this work with writing? If you’ve ticked me off lately you may wish to nail plywood over your windows.

On days like this, I may write the worst, most spiteful and mean, judgmental things ever. I can rag about students who NEVER seem to understand that quotation marks go outside the punctuation or that head hopping POVs make my head hurt. Or worst of all, the ones who can’t grasp the idea of double spacing with a readable font. Troglodytes!

And then, with the magic of the backspace, I can make it all disappear. Unless the cat has decided to blackmail me, which is entirely possible. He’s sitting on the keyboard, planning revenge for all the upholstered furniture I’ve shooed him away from, demanding tuna in exchange for my Dayquil, which he’s highjacked. Great. Now I’m feeling crankier than ever.