Caveat: I am severely hormonal and easily angered, so I apologize if I sound a bit militant in the following post. But the weight gain Nazis of the prenatal world need to be dealt a swift and efficient blow. Here goes nothing.
I think I'm finally ready to get back to my novel. My writer's block is diminishing as this pregnancy continues, and I'm getting sick and tired of feeling like a ineffectual lump. I've come up with every excuse it the book, when my excuse for everything else should BE the book.
I still haven't told my commercial agent that I am knocked up. She hasn't sent me out a lot lately, and I figured that if she knew my "condition" it would just make matters worse. And anyway, until I was really showing, what was the point? Well, the point is that I could get caught in an awkward situation. Like yesterday.
A few weeks after my first miscarriage, and right before my second, PS and I went out for Mexican and were sat right next to a table of not one, but about six pregnant women. Needless to say, it was painful for me, but one woman in particular upset me. Or, rather, her t-shirt upset me. It featured large block letters spelling out the following message: It's not a belly, it's a baby.
