A good book always provides an escape, doesn't it? Especially for those who write them as well as read them. It's amazing how a story can help us avoid cleaning the toilet, occupy us on a rainy day, and help us overcome boredom or the everyday.
And then there's that sensation of the world halting when we're reading a good book. That no matter what happens around us our desires and our cares are in that book. Until it's done. And we devote ourselves to it until it's done.
Our writing operates in a similar fashion. It offers escape that often borders on obsessive. We also give our angst and our joys a home in our writing.
So what happens when the emotional down funk halts our writing? For me, a reading binge can be energizing or it can be a form of avoiding writing. But sometimes, like today, the writing feels insurmountable because my emotions feel like they cannot be overcome. On typical days like this I give the torment to my characters and let them work it out for me. But the occasional day comes where I cannot lift my fingers to share my pain.
And I wallow.
I read until I'm sick of the words. I nap. I stare at my iPod, and rebuke it. I do the same with a bottle of wine knowing that will intensify my pain.
Eventually, my husband will probably drag me to some plebeian place like Wegmans or the mall. Dear God I hope not... not on the day after Christmas. But I feel like some of my Christmas presents: big and bulky (like the clothes that don't fit) and oddly half-functional (like the coffee pot I received without any coffee).