Husband and I went out for breakfast this morning. There’s a local Dominican restaurant with the best (and best priced) coffee in the city a few blocks away, and there’s nothing like a big plate of yuca con cebolla–cassava with sweet red onions and vinegar–for comfort food. It won’t even hit my large intestine until tomorrow, but hey.
Now I feel physically the way I’ve been feeling mentally; overly stuffed, and unable to even look at more food or another word of fiction, until I can process what I’ve already taken in.
Husband asked if I got a lot of writing done yesterday. Nope, not a word. Not the day before or the week before either. I’m in overload, not to be confused with overdrive. Not writer’s block, just a pause.
Sure, there’s that little voice in my head telling me I should be writing. I’m telling that little voice to shut up. There are certain perks to being forty thousand years old and having written off and on for much of that time. I know better, know when to stop giving the voice an ear. Uncertainty about what I’ve produced? That’s forever. But I know I will write again, taking a break can be a break without the ceremonial gnashing of teeth and wailing that I’ll never write again .
Six weeks ago I was bemoaning the fact that I couldn’t retreat from the world and do nothing but write for a month. I was on a roll, and knew that inevitably real life would interfere. And so it did. Cycles. Life will settle again, I will settle again, and then I’ll find myself muttering and clicking over Astonishing again.