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 Each day feels new, and my memory of the one before is faint. I’m learning to adapt. |
| There’s an odd limbo I fall into every time I finish a writing project. It’s not rest. It’s not celebration. It’s more like wandering around my own house, opening cabinets and forgetting why I walked into the room. My brain keeps asking, Shouldn’t we be writing something? and I keep answering, I know… I know… I’m working on it. I always think the “in-between” will feel peaceful, like a mini vacation. Instead, it feels more like I’ve misplaced my keys, my plot, and possibly my sanity. I suddenly remember every abandoned idea I ever had and start poking at them like leftovers in the fridge. Some are still good. Some should have been thrown out a long time ago. I try to relax—read a book, drink a hot cup of coffee before it becomes iced coffee against my will—but the next story is always tapping on the glass somewhere in the distance. It never rings the doorbell politely. It just lurks until I notice it. So here I am again, between projects, pretending to be calm while waiting for the next idea to jump out and tackle me. It always does eventually. In the meantime, I’ll be wandering around, opening mental cabinets, looking for inspiration or at least a snack. |
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