I have not written a thing in nearly two months. Writing is my work, and you would think being away would feel like vacation. But is hasn’t. It’s made me feel scattered–ugly scattered.
Some mornings when I AM working, I have to make myself trudge up to my office and then I sit there and dabble at anything to distract myself from it. But it’s times like these–breathers–that slap me alongside the head as if to tell me no matter how hard it is NOT to press forward with writing.
Has time off always felt so rudderless?