It’s been hard to settle back into a normal routine after so long working every waking hour at essays (I do it to myself, like everything else). So today has been a bit of a daze. Not quite able to keep myself busy enough to be as distracted as I was last week, but not free enough to avoid feeling guilty when I’m not working.
Every time my writing is interrupted I have this trepidation about getting back into it, like I’m afraid I won’t be able to pick up the flow again, or that what I might write in my current state of mind won’t be what was originally intended in that initial burst of creativity that I’m now separated from. Stupid, I know, because if I’ve learned anything during my time as a writer it’s that time away to think, even when distracted, lets the brain develop the story more. I’ll get there tomorrow.
Got an email from Dad anyway. That’s rare. After the usual outpour of my problems I get a nice short reply. So I can stop feeling guilty about not having contacted him – for a while. Everything’s okay though. He’s always been a bit mysterious. Working on his projects, disappearing of places. We’re not that different, I guess. I think it’s where I picked up my willingness to move at the drop of a hat. Still, I’d like to know more about what he’s doing, a mind like mine starts to wonder…
Where do you think you desire for writing comes from? Mine seems to be the comfort I get from reading. It was the only way I could sleep as a child.