Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

I haven’t written anything creative in two days, which is something of a record. It felt strange, not as if something were missing but as if I had a lot more time on my hands to pursue other things.

I finished decorating our house for the holidays and cleaned the mess made by exploding beer bottles in our beverage refrigerator. (Note to self: Make sure the temperature in the frig is set differently in the future.) I sorted my winter clothing and organized the end-of-the-month bills.

None of these activities is particularly creative or inventive. Rather they simply needed to be done. But what I noticed is that my brain really took a break from its writing chores without feeling guilty. The thought crossed my mind that maybe I should give up writing, since I didn’t miss it all that much and there are so many other things I’m interested in (Second note to self: Things that need to be done are not the same as things I’m interested in.)

For instance, there’s my piano, and the little book I’m writing about taking lessons for the first time in late middle age. There are the couple thousand photos I want to organize . . . which reminds me of the essay I’m writing about them. There are my crochet projects . . . and – yes – I’m writing about them too.

(Final note to self: I can’t stop writing because it’s tied to everything I do.) I guess these two days were the equivalent of a lovers’ spat without the spit. My alter-ego writer person walked out on me. But, now she is back, and we’re ready to take up where we left off.