I don’t know what to do with myself when I’m not writing. The me who is not-writing is exceptionally boring. She loafs around, stares for long periods of time at the wall, and has zero aspirations to do anything substantial. Her goals include: getting through the day; remembering to take her vitamins; finding underwear for tomorrow. On Sunday she cleaned and organized the living room. Not one of you wants to hear how I cleaned and organized the living room. It’s barely even entertaining, except for the moment when I found a hidden stash of dark chocolate with raspberry filling, which had been there for who knows how long, but I didn’t even eat it. Apparently the non-writing me doesn’t care for good chocolate. I feel sorry for her. She also made a shopping list, or started a shopping list for the grocery store, and then got bored and left it half-finished, and never went shopping for the things on it either. At least she made herself useful and found her passport.

I’m not saying I don’t have things to do, I just don’t have much will to do them.

I’m taking a break on the Unmentionable Novel for real reasons, but I know what you’re going to say: Why not work on something else for the duration? I wish I could, but I have this thing with voices. Once I’m in that magic place with a voice I absolutely cannot, should not, stop writing in that voice and switch to another. Such is the danger with first-person, but I love first-person and I won’t mess with the magic, you know?

Non-writing me just replied to three emails. She’s so courteous. Non-writing me updated her website. Actually, she messed it up very early one morning and had to wait for her web designer / adorable husband to wake up so he could fix it. Non-writing me has lots of things to read, but she also has concentration problems. She’s having trouble sitting still. I suspect she may have ADHD.

I can’t wait to start writing again.

Maybe I should start writing again.

Maybe this is proof that, without writing, my life is meaningless.

Maybe, if I don’t have a deadline, I don’t even exist.

Whoa. Scary!

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