The first sign was music. Or lack thereof. My mind was calling for silence. Demanding it, to the point that I couldn’t even bear to turn on the radio while driving. And not just because I was tired of hearing the same 10 songs over and over. (Even the good ones get old after awhile.) Something inside me needed to rest.
The quiet went on for days. Weeks. Months. No music. Few books. Hardly any writing. It feels scary, almost shameful, to admit that last part. I’ve spent so much of my life wanting to be a writer, carving out space and time to be a writer, justifying the cost and heartache of being a writer. How could I not be writing?
Only recently, when I finally found myself yearning for music again, did I realize what I’d been doing, and how very vital it was to my work. [Read more…]