I open my eyes. The day stretches before me like an unwritten text. I do the breakfast-thing, the taking-the-kids-to-school-thing and drive to work like I do every Monday. Once I’m there, I try to shake the feeling of dread holding my thoughts prisoner as I set out to do my work. My stomach demands food every hour because it knows my mind is bored. I do the calls, the documents, the appointments, forcing positivity and reality in my brain. (My job is okay, it pays good money and I don’t really hate it). More than once I think about writing, snippets of text fly through my brain and I wave them away. “Now, is not the time,” I say to myself. Knowing well enough, that NOW is all there is. When the day is done, I drive home to do the grocery thing- the cooking thing- the kids to bed thing and collapse on a chair to dive into Netflix or Prime, after which I go to bed.
Flash forward One week
I open my eyes. The day stretches before me like an unwritten text. I do the breakfast-thing, the taking-the-kids-to-school-thing and drive to work like I do every Monday. Once I’m there, I try
Well, you know what’s going to happen. I do the same thing I did the week before. My writing dream hunts me, keeps fluttering in my brain but I stay away from it. Barely touching it. A line from Stephen King’s On writing is on repeat in my head. HOW MANY RERUNS OF ER CAN YOU WATCH.
The answer is (shamefully): a lot.
A lot of days flash by, turning into weeks, into months. Into a Time Loop, a prison of sorts I built for myself.
2020 is going to be the year I build myself another time loop. A time loop filled with words, color and story.