Last night was the first night in 134 days that I did not come here to write.
Instead, C put V to bed, and though I opened the WordPress window and even hovered my cursor over the subject line, I eventually navigated away and researched and wrote for The Book (intentionally capitalized, because that’s how it feels right now — huge and daunting and deserving of capital letters) instead.
It sounds dumb, but I missed you. And almost like you’re a lover, I wanted to tell you why I didn’t call.
Today, I sat in a Starbucks and meant to just go over the few pages I wrote last night, and fourteen double-spaced pages and 4100 words later, I now feel totally emptied out. Writer’s haze. I haven’t felt that in a long time.
I texted C earlier, “The process and undertaking this book will be feels so overwhelming. Especially knowing it will take a year. Or years.”
“It’s worth it,” he said.
I said, “I know. The thing is, the time will pass anyway.”
(Is there something big you’re avoiding doing, even though the time will pass anyway?)