On the 7th the week caught up with me, big time. After work, I had to do some stuff in preparation for a Board meeting the next day and then realized I HADN’T READ ANY FICTION FOR MORE THAN A WEEK! *gasp* No wonder I was feeling cranky. I was exhausted so I picked up the fluffiest book I could find and tried to read. Instead I fell asleep on the couch at an embarrassingly early hour.
The 8th was five and a half hours of meetings, with a break for lunch, and hanging out with some of my favorite people, other writers. Big changes on that front in the coming year. I’ve relinquished one responsibility [happy happy joy joy] but am taking on another. And while part of me is wondering why the hell I can’t just keep my mouth shut instead of saying, “Sure, I can do that,” a larger part of me is excited and happy about the new challenge.
But all that talking and listening just wears me out and I needed to hibernate for a while afterward to process everything. So I finished reading the fluffy book and thoroughly enjoyed it.
No writing. Didn’t even think about the book. And I needed the break. This effort is teaching me the truth of something I’ve always suspected but never actually tested: I am not a seven-days-a-week kind of writer. But I’m also discovering that there are times (of the day, of the week) when I had thought I couldn’t be productive, and I was mistaken.
Back to it.