I haven’t read anything about writing this week. I haven’t thought about writing. I haven’t talked about it with anyone. I haven’t even done any writing.
There’s reasons for this. It’s that time of year where there always seems to be something that needs doing, and by the time all that’s done, it’s time for bed. And I am exhausted, the combination of a stressful job (especially stressful and busy lately) and a flare-up of my illness. It’s cold and dark,and my reaction to winter is usually to go into some sort of hibernation.
I’ve done all the usual tricks. I have my notepad on the table on front of me – not reproaching me as such, but trying to tempt me. I have tried forcing it, but it didn’t work.
I’m not stuck on a difficult part. On the contrary, the scene I’m writing next is one I thought of a while ago, and I’m really looking forward to writing it.
It’s just not time yet. No doubt next week I’ll be back in the game. I’ll write, and read about writers and talk about writing and get excited. But for now, just today, just this moment, I’m just going to rest, and wait for the right moment. For now, that’s all I can do.