|Image from Wikimedia Commons: Doctor|
Schnaubel von Rom, mid-17th century
If it wasn't for the fact I've got several months' worth of material ready for posting (Sowing Ghosts is eighteen chapters long, meaning a dozen chapters to go and a dozen weeks of posts just requiring formatting and scheduling) this blog would certainly have fallen off a cliff by now.
I am somewhat bemused to realize that this period of isolation isn't bringing me any wonderful new discoveries. Cooking? I already do a lot of that. Hoarding? Not necessary, because we have always planned our shopping fairly thoroughly, and we tend to buy fresh meat, veg, and fruit once a week, and to buy only what we know we're going to need.
Reading? It's what I do for pleasure anyway. (This year I decided to keep track of my reading: as of the end of March I had read or reread 75 books, and I added another seven titles to the list in the first week of April.)
But I sure don't feel like writing. For me writing is my full-time job, and at the moment I don't really have the attention span to cope. I'm down to the final few scenes of the first draft of a new novel... and there's just nothing there. I can't even get myself excited about revision and rewriting.
Okay, there's nothing new in that. I can never get myself excited about revision and rewriting.