November 3rd, 2010

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bad mood, with books

In the real world, I am sickened and saddened but not surprised. Gullible and easily led - those traits certainly seem hardwired into human nature, if nothing else.

But I have books! The Confidence Man: His Masquerade by Herman Melville (title seeming achingly appropriate right now, we'll see about the story), Long Walks, Last Flights and Other Strange Journeys by Ken Scholes, Memories of Envy by Barb Hendee, and Surface Detail by Iain M. Banks. I just finished Cryoburn by Lois McMaster Bujold last night... So I have at least the possibility of mental escape.

I also have NaNoWriMo writing to do, in the midst of all these siren calls. I'm on track so far, but it's day three. I'll be prouder further in, closer to the goal. If my novel were a happier place it would be more of an anodyne, but they say write what you know, after all.
pencil

depression-illness link

So, as the day has worn on I have developed a sore throat and a slight fever. I rarely get fevers (it's actually kind of a problem since it's a critical check-point on a lot of diagnosis; the most fun was the bronchial pneumonia that almost got missed because I didn't really have much of a fever) so when I do I tend to consider myself well and truly ill with something.

Note to the universe: this doesn't make me less depressed, you know, this getting sick while feeling despair. But it does seem to underscore a link between depression in mind and depression in immune system.