This past week or two, I’ve really needed to write. I know this for two reasons: I’m cranky, and I can’t read anything.
I’ve started and stopped three books in the past two weeks. I pick one up thinking, I wanted to read this for a reason, lets give it a shot! only to discover that I’m not remotely in the mood required to read that book.
I’m not in the mood for self-effacing, funny memoirs. I’m not in the mood for critically-acclaimed and very well-written fiction. I’m not in the mood for books about hiking (which I’m always in the mood for). Heck, yesterday, I wasn’t even in the mood to go hiking. There’s something wrong.
Of course there is.
I need to write.
Yesterday, the man of the house took the dog and the boy tromping around the woods. It was a beautiful day for it. I am usually the first person to sign up for time in the woods.
Instead, I stayed home, and I sort of wrote. I scribbled down my notes from my dream about 6 kids escaping across a crazy landscape. I wrote the new outline for the Maaneshin graphic novel, and realized that I had a major plot hole that would need to be plugged before I could continue working on it. But I didn’t really write. I got distracted by seating charts and thank you notes.
The wedding is in less than 2 weeks, y’all. I’m allowed to be distracted by that stuff. I know I’m stressed when I can’t even daydream properly. (Except, when people ask me what I’m doing when I’m staring into space, I tell them I’m in the pre-writing phases of storytelling, which is more or less true.) My daydreams turn into to-do lists. My little headaches turn into migraines, and my left eyelid is twitching.
I like to finish a book from cover to cover and say “check!” at the end of it. Goodreads judges me because I haven’t been able to do that for weeks!