Lately, I haven’t felt much like writing. I don’t know why. I do know the key is to force myself to write until I get though it. Writing is a muscle that must be exercised, but I am so far out of my routine that I’m just sitting around waving at the solution while I do other things.
I’m undisciplined at writing for the first time in years. I hate it, and I feel relieved. I am relieved because I was so adamant about writing almost every day that my moments away from my family were filled with only words and work. I hate it because I feel compelled to tell stories and explain the world, and the last time I stopped writing, I did not start again for years.
I’ve been told by those smarter than me that maybe I need to time and space to relax. Maybe my brain and body need downtime. Maybe I need to pursue more than what I had been able to squeeze in for years.
I don’t know. I’m not filled with angst as much as confusion over this blank, unscheduled period. I thought this (school) year I would write more not less. I guess my crystal ball is broken.