I’ve been in Scotland for just over a month now. I’m writing every day, but not fiction. It’s a strange thing, to not be grappling over characters, writing to record what is going on in my life, more out of habit than anything else. There’s little delight in twisting words across the page, coming up with delicate phrasing and subtle descriptions.
But I’m not writing fiction. I feel as though something is missing. I return from my day, and I can’t do anything more than work and sleep. It isn’t writer’s block, as I don’t believe in it, but…I’m not sure how to respond. Something’s missing, and yet, I’m whole.