On not writing
Right now, I’m not writing. And it feels strange. I have been writing for a long time. Specifically, I have been writing my first novel for a long time, and I have been editing it for a long time. One week ago, I turned it over to my editor and maybe I’m finished with it now. Maybe. Maybe changes will be required and, if so, I am happy to make them. We both want the book to be its best.
So, I’m not writing. I’m waiting and dreaming and sleeping in and wandering around garden centres and pulling weeds and reading fiction and staring. I’m not writing. And I’m wondering how I would fill all this time and this space in my head if I didn’t write. I can’t imagine.