The book is going slowly; I’m writing an average of 1000 words a day, rather than my typical 2000. It’s a stubborn book; it doesn’t know if it wants to be written. I’m writing it mainly because my husband suggested I should when I told him I had no more books to write.

Writing is no longer the fever it was when I started writing. I have gone through all the obsessions, all the stories that clamored to be written. Writing now is not exactly a trudge, but it’s no longer the force it was when I started. I suspect this is natural, a consequence of time or age. Or of the change in medication I went through about a year ago, and then it’s a matter of finding my equilibrium again.
I miss the writing obsession. It gave me a sense of purpose, a feeling that I labored for something bigger than myself. Maybe it was delusional; maybe it’s a good thing to lose the fever. I miss it, however.






