My Hiatus From Writing

Although I technically write daily, after a few weeks of none of that being drafting, there's a point where I've honestly accepted that I'm not really working towards those goals at the moment. The admission is scary for some, but it can be a motivational tool; if not, then it's certainly a mark of accountability.

There are reasons, of course. Good ones, even. Still, I consider the reprieve as a yellow area, a warning that will start to darken and haunt me the longer I disregard it. I can certainly be satisfied that the ideas are growing, the scenes find better ways to unravel, but the more I consigned them to notes, the less they'll bloom fresh in the pages of a draft. I already know; it is possible to overplan as much as under.

Even drawing and crocheting has felt segmented from direct purposes. While this isn't the same as burning out--insofar, I've been enjoying these things in small doses still--I can't be too careful. When I love something, or even obsess on it, it is just as shaky as an addiction. We never feel the point where the fun and control plummets into dependence and desperation. It's not creativity that I dip into at all, or the addiction comparatively. Creativity is not the place that is difficult to go; it's the place I'm from. In a way, it's reality that is closer to the addiction. It's the reality of life that makes me breathe shallower and holds me under at times. It gums the gates to home and makes the air itself thick with obstacles, stretching my skin like a canvas along the way.

But I've given myself a yellow flag. The reminder that I've spent too much time anchored away from myself, that the pining that grows cannot be allowed to continue. I have to cut ties, find what is holding me back, be willing to stomach the strange faces that wonder why I'm retreating when nothing seems amiss. Because going home means a place where I don't check messages, I mumble to myself, I don't ever know what day or time it is and I'll screw up my face as I pause to answer questions even about myself. At home, I'm not all here. You'll think I'm upset but it's the exact opposite. My energy just goes to home. It's not this side of me that anyone should worry about. It's the one where I'm smiling too hard, too worried about making sure I'm not worrying you, stressing over the same trivial things that are supposed to be normal.

I'll get through today in a blur. Tomorrow, I'm starting the day doing laundry and baking cookies. The rest of the day, I'm looking for the bread crumbs back home and making a mental note to better mark my way back. I've been away too long.