I was feeling anxious for no apparent reason. I checked in with “my” cognitive therapist.
We decided I was feeling a big fat lack in my life of a big fat writing project, the sort that brings me not mere pleasure but sustained joy, the sort of project that makes me leap out of bed every morning with excitement… My life had a schedule but no hierarchy of activities: it was pretty, but shapeless. Everything I did was interesting, even fun, but no one activity took precedence.
That was true, so I have dropped my new online teaching project with a thud. Making video courses was a rebound project — something interesting to do after selling my business and getting another novel published — not a true-love project. I loved the learning … liked the making … but hated publicising. It was starting to feel like work (the dreary sort) not play.
True-love writing projects brew for some time before forcing themselves to the surface of a writer’s mind and the foreground of a writer’s day.
I decided not to hunt for a true-love project, but to wait patiently. To enjoy the novelty of a creative vacuum. To quote Skip To my Lou, My Dharma, “Let’s just see.”
So I’m starting a self-imposed sabbatical on Thursday with a trip to Brisbane and a long weekend with my sister and brother-in-law.
My cat has got the pip. Don’t you love her sunshine tips? I’m bound for Queensland, but hey, she says, there’s plenty of sun right here, what’s the problem?