So what does a writer do when she doesn’t feel like writing? I dunno. I’m asking you. I haven’t updated my blog since last Tuesday. I’ve been busy, yeah, but that’s not why it hasn’t been updated. It hasn’t been updated because I haven’t felt like writing.
Uh … what the hell is up with that? I’m a writer. If I don’t write, than what am I? I’m just Sara Dobie, human being, and well, as interesting as that might be to some people, it doesn’t feel interesting to me.
I’m sure this will pass, because it usually does.
Writing is an outlet. It is my way to decompress, so if I haven’t been doing it, am I therefore compressed? Am I, in fact, ready to pop? I guess I could do what other people do to decompress. Wait, what do other people do to decompress?
My father sits down in his reclining chair at 4:30 PM every day. He’s retired, in case you were wondering, so he can get away with this. At 4:30 PM, Dad sits there with his Labatt Blue (or sometimes Coors Original) and his reduced fat Cheez-Its. He turns on ESPN. He watches Jim Rome is Burning. He changes the channel at 5 PM to watch MASH, because he doesn’t like the Around the Horn guys. Then, at 5:30, he goes back to ESPN and watches Pardon the Interruption. He does this. Every day. To decompress.
I always knew when my friend and ex-roommate Hannah needed to decompress, because she would go on runs. All the time. She would get home from work, change immediately into her black Under Armor ensemble, and she would run, run, run. Usually, she’d be back an hour later, sweating from nose to toes. Then, she would grab a book and hide on our back porch until bed. She did this to decompress.
So what the hell am I supposed to do? I could take a hint from Dad and Hannah. I, too, have the occasional beer/Cheez-its routine, and I work out at least three times a week. Oh, see, but that makes me think I already do these things—out of habit, not to decompress. So my decompression tactic has to be something else. And since I don’t feel like writing, I better figure it out, before I do just explode all over the apartment.
I guess I could go lay out by the pool. But I always feel bad when I do that, because I feel like I should be working or cleaning or doing something productive.
I could watch some daytime television. Wait, no, I don’t wanna do that.
I could go for a walk around the pond across the street from our house. Feed the crazy geese with some stale bread. The weather channel says it’s only 90 degrees right now.
Or maybe I could curl up in a tiny ball on our brand new king-size bed and pretend I’m shrinking.
Huh. What do other writers do when they don’t feel like writing? Or do those weird news clips about spontaneous combustion answer that question?