I'm depressed. I'm sure I'm getting my period. My boobs are sore, I have a headache, and I picked a fight with my husband this morning (something about him not being romantic enough, which was actually unfounded).
And did I mention that everyone on the subway is pregnant? All of these women have burst onto the scene lately, flaunting their big bellies to the world. It makes sense that I'd see more pregnant tummies in the summer — when they aren't covered up by winter jackets — but sometimes I feel like these women are just showing off.
Even more depressing, the character in my book, A Thousand Splendid Suns, just had a miscarriage. Devastating. Is it any wonder we all worry about pregnancy complications? They obviously make for compelling plots lines, so they're constantly foisted upon us.
I'm clearly not in a hopeful state of mind.