Nervous!

Yes, I am.

In less than half an hour, photographer D. will stop by, and we'll head off to put together the first article I've taken on since, well, the events of the last two fun-filled weeks.

I'm not sure I can handle it. I expect no problems, but until I actually start taking notes, asking questions, being Mr Nice Guy to the people who are helping out and applying my ability to analyze and turn impressions into words, I have no idea if I'm going to do it right or drop the ball. In this instance, the latter could have serious consequences.

The confidence issue is a strange one. I've mentioned the suspicion that my brain got altered somehow during the recent trauma, and that I am less capable as a result. Now I'll have some proof. The feelings are not as clear as suddenly finding that radishes look blue or the sky is green; no, it's the subtle hints that have me wondering.

No one sees this but me. It has been said that my writing may actually be better now than it was in my past life, but those who say so base it on my journal-writing, which is as different from actual writing-for-a-living as chalk is from cheese.

The biggest curse of age or any serious illness, seems to me, is a diminution of one's ability to do what earns one a living or is most enjoyable.

Has that happened? I'll know in a couple of hours.

Right now, though, the possibility is making me more than a little crazy.