To quote Mark Twain: the reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.
For the past few months, writing wise, I have been lazy and whiney and pretty much as pathetic as one person can be, but I have not died. Despite the fact that I have written very little, whether it be here or on my work-in-progress, I have not given up. It’s just that, for weeks now, my non-writing, paying job has consumed me mentally, wearing me down to the point that I don’t want to think about anything once I’m home, and I have allowed that to be my excuse.
I had a wake-up call one Sunday, not too long ago. I sat and watched Netflix all day. It was a really good show, and I watched a full season without stop. If you knew me better, you’d know that isn’t normal. I never, ever just sit and watch TV. Never. Ever. The TV may be on, but it’s usually background noise to everything else going on. To realize that I had given the idiot-box my full attention sort of scared me. And brought me back to my wits.
Since then, I’ve been slowly restoring my writing muscles. They’re still creaky and sore, but no pain, no gain, right?
It feels good to be back.