I’ve been coping with a crummy cold. Nothing worrisome, no Covid, just the old-fashioned kind featuring headache, sneezing, sore throat, fitful sleeping, racking cough. Partly because Covid made us careful, I haven’t had one of these for what’s illogically called “a dog’s age.” During my working years, I tended (unhygienically) to work my way through colds, since no particular brilliance was demanded on the job. These days, when writing is my work, I find myself at sixes and sevens when a cold comes. (Where sixes and sevens come from, no one’s sure.) Write groggy and you may face a mess to clean up. It’s hard to think and sneeze at the same time.

Some people give themselves “the day off” when a cold conks, amusing themselves with video games or mysteries or junk TV. I like the idea but can’t bring myself to do it. My Protestant self-loathing kicks in – I am a worm and no man – “I wasted time and now doth time waste me” (Richard II) – I deserve the oblivion I’m sledding toward, etc. The absurdity of my self-importance is hilarious even to me, only it’s not. If I’m not working, I’m shirking, heading headlong to hell, no ifs or buts.

So how should I spend my time, having walked Henry and made sure Jane and I won’t starve? Sleep, yes, but then? Reading is impossible, exercise intolerable, chores unthinkable, thinking out of the question, so how about a missive about writing while sick, which I can always chuck if it turns out dreck? Say what I see – my invariable anodyne: right myself by writing myself.

Since you’re reading this sentence, my attempt must have passed muster, even if only by a whisker. That’s the charm of words – they take you in hand and lead somewhere, you just have to trust them. Language is a frisky colt if you let it be, bucking and tugging and galloping every which way. Harness it to a task and a thoroughbred will plod like any dray.

What to say about this crummy cold? Start – “I’ve been coping with a crummy cold” – and see where the topic twists. It helps me to envision you and me as pals on a daily stroll. We converse casually, amiably, sympathetically, using usual words. If we occasionally toss in a lexical whopper or hifalutin quote, it’s for the fun of it, not to preen. The Golden Rule applies to writing as to the rest of life: speak as you’d like to be spoken to. I hate the hoity-toity or starchy or sniffy as much in prose as in person. (Trump’s syntax, you’ll be shocked to hear, makes my skin crawl.)

Colds are no fun – but like any misery they can be fun to talk about. That’s how I made my way through my bumpy life – by describing it (mostly to myself), often “talking myself down.” These days you and I share our dawns, but we were together long before you joined me in fact. I lived my life to tell my loved ones about it. Whatever happened was an adventure. The more hair-raising the event, the more interesting to read about. Even boredom needn’t bore when depicted.

Writing taught me how to be by making me a critic of my performance. Writing taught me truth by cross-examining my words. “Is that what you think?” each assertion inquires, “– what you really think?”

Writing teaches humility – by comparing one’s words to the best, yes, but also by showing how unspecial you are. Printed boasts boomerang deliciously. So, big fella, gotta cold? – wanna make something of it!