In the past two weeks I have done no fiction writing. I don’t feel bad about it (like I usually do) but neither do I feel particularly good. If I’m honest it has left me a little empty. I have also been struck by how much free time I actually have. Now I understand why my friends with kids and families to organise question what I do with my days. I had no idea how much time I filled with writing until I stopped.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve not spent all that time on the lounge in front of the TV (but a big chunk has gone that way). I’ve been gardening, exercising, cooking proper meals and giving my friends and family the attention they deserve. I’ve enjoyed this time away, but I can feel the hole inside me opening wider every day. I chose to ignore it, until now.
Yesterday I started coming down with my first cold in many months. Maybe even years. I can’t actually remember the last time I had a cold. I can’t help but wonder if my dropping the ball on my writing might have contributed. My body is telling me that I’ve got the balance out of whack.
I know people will think it is a long stretch to draw this conclusion, but I am a big believer in mind over matter, and I know that right now things feel wrong by not writing. I wrote more in the past 24 months than I had in the previous 6 years and I have been pretty healthy in the past 24 months. I truly believe my life was nicely balanced then. Now it is not.
My muse is not with me, and I have no ideas for stories, but today I’m going to write. Just putting those words down has sparked a flicker of excitement in my belly. Let’s see if I knock this cold on the head before it really takes hold. If it does, then I think I have to accept my fate and commit to writing for the rest of my days. I really like that idea.