IS THERE ANYTHING WORSE THAN NOT WRITING?
Six weeks later, I was back home cleaning and restocking our RV for another trip. I would have been content to stay at home, but my husband wanted to go to our favorite place at the lake. He'd been so patient last spring, in spite of his cabin fever when I was researching, that I felt he deserved my attention now. Besides, I knew I had a goal, and I'd get back to it once the RV was put to bed for the winter.
You will be relieved to know I clean the entire house once a year whether it needs it or not. If the house were alive, it would be on all fours begging to be cleaned. Once a year I clean all the places I'd want clean if I were to die suddenly and strangers came by to console my husband. While I'm on my hands and knees with a yardstick and tac rag scouring the floor under the dryer, I remember that it has now been more than two months since I put my writing goal on hold to tend to real life. However, with windows open during the summer, the house has accumulated the corpses of various fly hatches along with dirt from open windows, cobwebs, and dust bunnies almost as big as our real bunny. I actually enjoy cleaning, and I know I'll get to my writing goal as soon as I finish.
There was a time a few weeks ago when I would've said this was not my problem. I had no time at all, let alone too much time. I had the will to work on my writing goal, but I simply could not make time for it. Now, I knew ennui described my predicament perfectly. I had lost the will to write. Nothing interested me. I was bored by everything that I had once enjoyed. Facebook posts seemed like desperate attempts for attention. Tweets were mostly tiresome plugs for books or pat prescriptions for self-motivation. I could think of nothing worth posting or tweeting. How creative was I if I could not manage something as simple as Facebook and Twitter?
In the process of writing about my own lack of motivation to write, I find I easily write almost fifteen hundred words in spite of several interruptions that would've been irritating at one time. My husband wandered into my office to tell me about the status of childbearing in Japan. Then I realized it was time to prepare lunch. When I was back to work on my blog post, my husband interrupted again because he could not find a sweater in the master closet. I had rearranged it during my fall cleaning campaign. However, these interruptions didn't faze me. I had started writing again. I no longer felt dull and apathetic. My synapses were doing whatever synapses do. I knew I'd get back to being creative again.