I’ve spent most of today dealing with repairmen, after a months-long odyssey of broken toilets, showers, water softeners, and blown down fences. This house is getting old, I guess, because it feels like everything is breaking at once.
I’m feeling old, too, and worn out, just from talking to people, perfectly nice people, but still… The requirement to be civil and alert and basically a nice person is draining at times. I can fake being an extrovert for only so long, then I need to climb into a hole. Right now I feel like I need a hole. A very deep hole.
I can fake being an extrovert for only so long, then I need to climb into a hole.
After the house was empty again and my dog was walked, I tried to concentrate on writing. But it felt like all my creative energy had gone into talking to actual people. I couldn’t summon up a conversation with my characters, the conversation that was so tantalizing in the wee hours this morning when I awoke. That turn of phrase that was just there, on the tip of my imagination, disappeared into the ether sometime in the warm light of day.
I have actually been pleased with my progress lately—I’ve been getting words down at a regular rate these days. After finishing a non-fiction project in March I was straining at the bit to start writing fiction again. But today I just have nothing left for the story.
Maybe I’ll find something in that hole.