When I woke this morning, happy and chipper for the first time in weeks, my vision of the day ahead was instantly clear.  I donned my most comfortable robe (if you’ve ever been on a Carnival Cruise – you know the one), cooked up a hearty breakfast (which I usually bypass for coffee alone), marched to my writing office doors and pulled them open with a flourish.  I was back!  I was ready to write!   

The grimace-inducing odor of stale moth balls wafted out, stopping me in my tracks.  The puzzling fact that I have never used a single moth ball in my house was overridden by a parallel truth more pertinent to the task at hand.  I hadn’t sat down at a computer to write in over three weeks.  My writing juices had turned sour.

This happens to me about twice a year – usually in spring and fall when no indoor task can hold luster against the prospect of frolicking outside with the plants and animals (i.e. my newest acquisitions: a perennial flower bed, two cows and a donkey – yes, I own an ass – jokes are allowed).

But, the break usually affords me a renewed perspective on writing and tends to be a benefit … despite the lack of words on paper … and the odd odor.

 

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