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.