Not writing is starting to get under my skin.
The two weeks I was going to take off has turned into a month.
At first it was so I could catch up on all the house work I’ve been putting off: hardscaping the front yard in response to the drought, cleaning up the back yard, fixing both fences.
More recently I’ve held off writing because of a talk I’m giving at a conference for work next week. I knew starting on any novel would quickly occupy whatever spare head space I have, and I wanted to keep that free to work on the presentation.
Both good reasons. But it doesn’t stop me from missing it. When I was working on the novel, I felt like I had a purpose, a mission to fulfill. Without another novel to work on, I feel more relaxed, true, but also a little empty, a little directionless, a little smaller now that I don’t have any characters spouting dialogue into my head.
I’m trying to be patient, to keep notes on the books I’m debating working on, to stay focused on the other goals I’ve set for myself for this month. But I miss the work, and need to get back to it.
