I'm waiting for my sister to come home so we can go to a family lunch together. 4:30 on a Thursday afternoon, but that doesn't mean much if you work from home.
I wrote an email today to my ex telling him that I am writingly constipated. It doesn't feel good, but it's not bad either. It just is, as faux Buddhist as that sounds.
I don't want to share my writing. I don't want to write because what's writing if you're not sharing? To paraphrase someone who said it better, little black marks on a page. Meaningless squiggles.
It's true, there's nothing like reading to keep you from writing.
I guess the trick is to take one's self less seriously. So what if you don't write?
In her most recent blog post, keri smith wrote:
"In fact nothing defines me, not even this amazing career that I have created. It feels really good to know that. I would in fact survive just fine without any of it. More important to me are the bigger things, my family, my health, my love of the world."
This is true; you just need to remember it. And I'm just not these days.