It’s funny, not writing. I mean, I know I’m writing now, but it doesn’t feel like it counts.
I’m talking about the big project, the novel, the book, the goddamn chapter that’s been a sticking point for the previous two sleepless nights. And now it’s all done, I come home from work, sit at my desk and sigh.
I’m between the waves. And jammed in the thick of those breaks, there’s an ocean.
I know what I’ll write next, every detail has been planned (even though it’ll all go out the window), but I don’t want to begin until a line has been drawn under the previous project.
I’m waiting to give the novel the final read, so I’ve taken two weeks away from it. That’s all it’s been. I even dragged myself on a beach holiday for seven days. And the new missus, who was more than happy to come along last minute, sipped her cocktail and kept giving it the old, “why you looking so glum, chicken? Look at the sand! The sea! Check out the fish! Grab another pina colada! You’ll be back to reality soon! This won’t last forever!’
But her talk meant little. I was between the waves. And I’ll keep floating until Sunday rolls around.