Writing-wise, the past few months haven’t been as consistent as I’d like.
I can blame it on a lot of things–kid issues, my friend learning she’s moving to Scotland and helping her get her house on the market and sold, personal drama–but even though all those things are real and relevant, I still miss it.
I can tell I haven’t been writing. I can almost feel it, the words bubbling around in my fingertips, jostling for elbow room in my brain. I need to let them out, let them spill on the page.
But I can’t.
My insides are all confused.
There’s too much I’m trying to keep track of and I get distracted too easily. I feel like there’s no time.
That’s both true and false.
There’s no large block of time, true. But there are little splices of time. I need to be taking advantage of them.
Jotting down some words and some thoughts–even when they aren’t polished or deep into the character–is better than having a simmering brain.
And no words on the page.