I hate the way I feel when I’m not in a book. Half-alive at best, and no one seems to understand. I’m resisting jumping into the next book, trying to get some things done around the house, re-connect with some beloved people, live a bit of real life. But I feel like most of me has wandered off somewhere. How did I ever spend years like this?
There has to be a happy medium. Doesn’t there? But for at least the last six months, if I’m not writing, I wish I were. That’s it. I don’t watch TV, I haven’t read a book in I don’t know how long, and I sure don’t want to go to work. I want to write. Leave me alone.
If I didn’t have the greatest people in the world for friends and family, I would be one lonely, lonely soul. If I ever looked up to notice, anyway.
Just keep the inspiration coming, and I’ll be fine.