This morning I sat down and wrote for the first time in a full month. My novel was like, Do you even know who I am anymore? And I was like, Do you know who I am? But we were mostly able to pick up where we left off, even though I think we both maintained a wary fear of abandonment.
I try not to be too hard on myself for not writing. The nice thing about being a writer (or erstwhile writer) is that everything you do when you’re not writing is arguably fodder for when you are. I’ve been doing some living lately. Also some sleeping and watching of Gossip Girl. (I am not at all comfortable with my no-longer-deniable crush on Blake Lively. I know she’s not in high school in real life, but I’m easily old enough to have been her babysitter.)
Anyway, for now I’m back. It feels fragile and good.