I feel it like the rumble of the subway when you're up on the street. Faint but there, familiar yet disorienting. It's been about two weeks since I turned in my book manuscript, and while you'd think I'd be high-fiving the world at this point, I'm not. The fact is I feel a little blue and adrift. Not the deep dark blues, the ones that are nearly black by any means, but enough to find myself sighing more.
Sure, there are things to be done other than writing 6, 8, 10 hours a day. Mowing the lawn, finally washing the handwashables, potting the plumeria clippings I got in Hawaii, doing a few minor consulting projects. Or reading 6, 8, 10 hours a day (I've plowed through the Hunger Games Trilogy, most of Emma Donahue's "Room", some of "Death Comes to Pemberley" and surely a few other things I'm not thinking of). But I don't feel quite like myself, or the self I've been since last August, at any rate. I feel a little more like this:
 |
| Me. Today. And yesterday. |
Whaaaarooo. (That's me making a whale sound into the abyss.)
I'm not myself without a project.
It used to be that I'd ask myself, "Am I only going to be happy once I have a family?" Now that I have a family, is the chronic question going to be, "Am I only happy when I'm writing a book?"
I do have an idea for my next book, but it's fiction -- historical fiction, set in England in the first half of the 19th century. About a woman who feels pretty "whaaarooo" herself.
I guess I had better get going on that.
No comments:
Post a Comment