Most of my April has been spent not writing. Doing anything but writing. Actively avoiding writing. Hence the silence here. I’m not avoiding the blog, per se, I just got busy.
There have been hours-long Game of Thrones marathons.
And more hours spent catching up with friends on the phone.
And even more time puttering around the house, thinking about all the writing I could be doing, beating myself up a little for not doing it, and finding other things to do instead.
I’ve got a novel or two in the hopper right now, rolling over and over in my brain, but instead of walking into my office, I sit on the couch and play another round of solitaire.
It’s hard to pin down why we avoid those actions that we know will make us happy. I know that if I go outside and take a run, I will feel better. I will sleep better, my brain doesn’t feel so murky, and I won’t feel bad about eating whatever I want. But why don’t I lace up my shoes?
It feels like inertia. It feels like slogging through mud. It’s not quite depression, but it’s a little more blue than normal.
I’m trying to give myself a break. I’m trying to be gentle and loving to myself first. I also just try to get through the day, sometimes. Make yourself busy so you don’t catch yourself looking. Keep truckin’.
I’ll look at all the reasons why, but later.