More specifically, about the fact that I've done precious little of it in months, largely thanks to the upcoming move, the final deadline for which is only a fortnight away.
Understandable? Sure. On some levels, at least. But really, there have been days when I've accomplished little more than packing (or, at the other house, unpacking) one or two boxes and then playing lots of Spider Solitaire.
On the one hand, it's hard to settle my brain to work, although I've managed to at least keep up with this year's newest writing projects, a daily journal (which is moving towards being a writing journal, about what I am and am not getting accomplished) and a poetry diary, which results in new poems (nearly) daily. Some of them even turn out to be okay work product, or the start of something worth revising, so at least I don't feel like a total failure.
And tomorrow, I am spending the day working on an editing job for a favorite client of mine (hear that, Slatts?), which is tremendous fun both due to the writing I'm working with (it's already good!) and the subject matter (MORE than good, and funny, too!).
I have decided that it is okay that I've been semi-idle for a while. Not because it has to be okay, although there's a bit of that, too, I guess. But because every single writer I know goes through these sorts of fallow periods, whether they are brought on by burn-out, or fatigue, or one too many rejections or negative comments from peanut gallery in the hard world of publishing. Whatever the reason, it happens, and since I am (unfortunately? fortunately?) not on deadline for anyone except the aforementioned client, who is pretty flexible anyhow, I figure I will roll with it.
But come April, I'll be ready to write like a mofo. Maybe I'll get me one of these mugs from The Rumpus. Or not. I am telling myself this pretty much every day, so that "whan that Aprille with his shoures soote" arrives, I'll be ready to write. Meanwhile, it's catch as catch can for me.
How are things with you?