It’s frozen once more, Gentle Reader, in the artic tundra of the American Midwest. We’ve been experiencing brutal temperatures that are jumping all over the thermostat. What’s a girl to do to protect her pipes, as well as her toes?
Today is my Day Off. I say it in capital letters because I very, very rarely take days off. But this semester, I am hoping that every Friday will be a day for me, to do laundry, go to doctors, shop, whatever it is I need to do, the little homey things that get pushed aside during the 12-hour work days in the life of an as of yet untenured professor.
But what I mainly want to do today, other than clean my office–which is a fright! truly!–is write.
I wrote yesterday. Not a lot. Not what I expected. But I think that I have been trying to force my way into projects I’m just not ready for. I’m not ready to move on from March and Becoming, despite their nebulous status as Out There In Publisher Land. I want to be in those worlds. I tried everything to move on–writing by hand, writing exercises, changing my location–and I was frozen, frozen over, not unlike the landscape of my backlawn.
But yesterday, I worked on a project for school, and it felt good to write. I realized that maybe, my creative energies need to be academic for a while, to let me recoup my losses, lick my wounds, and other euphemisms I can’t think of at the moment.
What’s important is that I write. And I did. And I missed it so.
The Postmodern Bluestocking 