Yesterday, after a really hectic day at work and about 6 hours of back to back therapy appointments and feeling absolutely shattered, I got home and started writing my next novel.

I sat down, turned on my computer, opened up a blank template and the words started to pour out. It felt good. I was moving. Ideas that had been percolating all winter effortlessly streamed out. So it went on for a couple of hours until hunger called me away and I headed off to make dinner. I have no real clue why it happened like this. Perhaps it was the return to routine. Maybe it was just the fact that if you over think something, it rapidly becomes impossible. Something trite and cheesy, like happiness or looking for love, the act of any artistic expression can’t simply be turned on like a tap, but has to come exactly when you aren’t desperately searching for it.

After eating, I came back to review what I had written.

It was terrible. I deleted it.