I haven’t written a word in days because I’m in the middle of moving and stressing about whether I’ll be able to do the self install on my internet and desperately missing my father who had made plans to visit me and then had to break them because of his own unexpected move.
Technically, I shouldn’t even be writing this blog post. I should be eating and packing but I’m not because my exhaustion levels are in the red, red alert alarms are blaring, and somewhere Captain Kirk is shouting for someone to initiate evasive maneuvers.
I can’t feel bad about not writing. I’ve got bills to pay. I’m still working full time, and because we’re still short staffed, I’m clocking in over forty hours of work, which leaves me little time to even feel up to reading, much less writing.
Oh, did I mention, I also returned three books to the library unread because I didn’t have time or the energy.
I hate feeling caught in this void of not having the energy to write. It happens sometimes even when I’m not in the middle of moving.
But I need to learn to make peace with that. That I’m not as prolific as other writers are. That that fact doesn’t mean that I will never make it as a writer. That that fact doesn’t mean that I’ll lose whatever small talent I have if I don’t do it every day.
Right now, the best I can hope for is that I’ll eat dinner before it’s bed time.