I am restless today. It’s been three weeks since I emailed a draft of my new book to my editor and agent. I’ve been dreaming in plots for a few days now, and I have done all the things I said I would do “when I finished the book.” Well, not all of them. Turns out I don’t always want to be in the garden.
I want to write. That’s pretty much what I always want to do. Write books, columns, essays, journals, ideas, plans—whatever. Writing is my natural state.
But just now, I can’t really get my mind to settle into anything. I can only write this piece because I’m observing my own process. Like Vaughn last week, I’ve started and abandoned several columns, unable to stick with any of them. One has potential and maybe I’ll get back to it, but I just don’t have the wherewithal to do it justice right now.
This is what I’ve got today:
I’m creatively exhausted. The final push for the most recent book was brutal, mostly because the subject matter was so intense that the girls in the basement arranged for me to only know everything in the final three weeks of the book, which means I lived a bunch of revelations and reversals right along with my characters and wore myself out physically as well as emotionally.
That’s fine. It’s just that now I don’t quite know what to do with myself. I take long walks and listen to podcasts. I play with the dogs. I read. Paint. I’m taking a watercolor class online which has a fair amount of homework, and that allows me to indulge in some kind of creativity.
It’s been three weeks. That seems like a long time. In terms of the outside world, a three week vacation is a very nice break indeed.
Clearly not long enough. [Read more…]