A lot of time has passed since I’ve written anything. I haven’t even been writing in my journal heavily lately. I feel like it’s a sickness, conversely, I feel like it’s just normal. There’s nothing burning inside me. I suppose I’ve had that feeling before, and I wrote it down (whatever it was), but that’s not the case. Count this as a journal entry. I’ve said this was a kind of journal. I’m still editing my short story collection as I get it back in pieces from my friend. I need new opinions also. The novel is still sitting, whether it’s a bad idea to have it sit or not. That’s what it’s going to do. I’ve ordered a messenger bag to carry it around in. Once I get that, I’ll print it up and begin working on it. Sometimes I like to get out and work on things rather than work from the house. Sometimes the house can feel suffocating and I need to change the scenery to get things the way I want them–‘right’.
About not writing lately–I don’t really feel guilty for not writing. I recently took a road trip to my mother’s house for Christmas and I didn’t take anything with me to keep writing. Maybe I needed a break. Maybe I still need that break. In a way I feel like there’s nothing wrong with taking a break from the writing if there’s no urge to write. There’s a difference between urge and inspiration. I have things to write about but I haven’t written them, for whatever reason. Maybe it’s a bad thing, as I’ve said, but when I get back on, I get back on, which will be soon.