Every time I get a twinge in my chest I'm aware of my mortality.
Linda was gone for the whole day, yesterday. It was a sample of what life would be without her. It wasn't pretty. Didn't accomplish a damn thing. (Well, I did mow and fertilize the lawn, trim some hedges, and do some weeding. Exciting life I have.)
It reminded me of the decade I spent mostly alone when I was depressed. But there was a weird compensation, somehow. I had an enormous appetite for media: movies, TV, music, and books. Especially books. I'm not sure I could do the same today.
The difference is--I'm not frightened I'm not going to have enough money for the next rent check. Yea!
I just don't have the desire to write. The longer this goes on, the less desire I have. Am I done?
Chances are I'll spend more time on this blog if I'm not writing fiction.
Is there anything wrong with just relaxing? I have inherited enough of Libby's puritan ethic to feel like I'm failing if I'm not doing something challenging. More than anything else, that was what writing novels represented for me. Every time I started a book is was a chance to get it right. Looking back, it doesn't seem like I varied all that much in quality, though it got easier to do.
I suspect that some idea will overtake me that I simply have to write.
1 day ago