How to Write Romance When Your Chronic Illness Gets Worse

Last month, I wrote a blog post about writing with joint pain, and recommended going for a walk and using your voice recorder on your phone to make notes for yourself as an alternative to writing a full plot outline.

It's a romance plotting method that has worked brilliantly for me since I started writing professionally in 2017.

I even got an email from an appreciative reader saying she used it herself, and it really helped her.

But what happens when you can no longer walk?

That's my reality right now. My mobility is very low, and I'm only just about able to shuffle around my apartment or to and from taxis for hospital appointments and in-patient stays.

The romance plotting walks, therefore, have gone out the window.

But I still need to plot. Though I've paused my plot outline service on my website for the foreseeable future due to my increase in symptoms, I have my own projects to work on, ones that are slow-going and give me a lot of joy, especially when times are harder.

There's nothing like writing a story about love and healing and hope when the latter of the two feels out of reach.

So what am I doing now that I can't plot walk?

I've switched out plot walks for lying on my bed, closing my eyes, and visualising a scene. I usually write in chronological order, so for the last two weeks, I've been focusing on the first three scenes in my latest project, spending a few hours a week imagining the scenes—dialogue, gestures, internal monologue—then writing notes as key pieces of dialogue and details come to me.

Is it as satisfying as a plot walk?

But this is what chronic illness requires: constant pivoting. (And relatable Schitt's Creek memes—for the cathartic laughs, obviously)

Because symptoms change, or new ones arise, and we have to work with them, rather than against them.

I'm not sure I've ever met a chronic illness patient who developed symptoms, found a treatment plan, and then was stable for the rest of their lives. If that's you, I'm very happy for you, but it's not the reality for most of us.

Thus, we have to accept change, as annoying as it is.

So if you're in a similar situation, I encourage you to embrace change like I did (though it's totally acceptable to also winge about it), and look for new ways to do the same activities that have formed the foundation of your writing routine.

If you've always written your manuscripts by hand but your joints just aren't behaving, try dictation software (I've heard great things about the—fairly expensive—Dragon).

If you've always dictated, but you're experiencing voice hoarseness, try notetaking instead.

And if that doesn't work, consider drawing out your scenes. It doesn't matter if you're a great artist; just stick figures and some speech bubbles can be enough.

If brain fog has robbed you of your ability to form words, write what you can, and leave blank spaces with what you want to say but can't find the right words for in brackets, like so: Hayley walks in, looks at Daniel, sees ___ (expression that means anger but also sadness), walks up and hugs him. (Insert scene of him slumping into her arms---> comfort, safety vibes to push them deeper). I've done this before, then gone back in and filled in the brackets when my brain fog has passed.

And look, it's hard. Like chronic illness in general, altering established habits that have worked well for us is frustrating.

You're almost certainly going to have days where you wonder and maybe even rage at your body for not letting you just do things the way you want.

You might feel jealous if you see or read about other writers using methods you no longer can.

I have, for example, felt quite jealous seeing people walking in my neighbourhood. I wish I too could get down my stairs, stroll onto the sidewalk, and do the thing my body has up until now been doing quite successfully since I was about 18 months old. Why can't life be easy like that?!

There's also a pang in me every time the cab taking me to hospital goes past my favourite coffee shop, the one I used to stop at on plot walks and sit by the window to take notes when my joints were having a good day.

But chronic illness isn't easy. It sucks. And so does change. But embracing change as a writer is a good thing. It makes you resilient. It makes you more open—to ideas, characters, themes, and the all-important (but sometimes difficult to stomach) criticism and feedback.

I'm not going to say it will make you a better writer, but it will make you a writer more skilled at adapting, something nearly every developmental edit asks of us.

I'd love to hear ways other writers with chronic illness have had to adjust their routines for flares or an increase/change in symptoms. Let's learn from each other, commiserate, and winge (which, if you're a US reader, is a delightful UK English term that means "whine." I'm using it a lot right now).

Until next blog post, happy reading and writing!