On being adrift
Some days I feel more adrift from the writing life than others. Like today. A few business emails, a little effort setting up speaking engagements, but creativity? Forget it. The closest I got to the literary life was reading my first book by Dr Seuss while waiting in a garage's service department.
Yesterday was only saved by a stream of creative thought on waking that helped streamline a plot, that I managed to get down in noteform before the day could trample it to oblivion. This is a time of dealing with plumbers, electricians, decorators, tilers, carpenters, getting this house in shape after the season's series of burst pipes. We're clearing the house for a month, giving it over to a nameless workforce, running down to France where the outside world gets busy somewhere beyond the rim of the Pyrenees. Where we're protected and ideas feel safe to come up and bubble away.
Boy, I look forward to it. My hold on the real world is falling apart. It's not just losing my wallet, I'm back to breaking things, forgetting things. I need to exercise by running with my imagination. Hopefully this workforce will have made a sanctuary of this house for when we come back, and the writing can continue.