Empty

I have to be honest with you fine folks.  I’m not entirely sure what to write here.  I’ve been going through the past few days living a life just shy of hermit-like.  Words are just not flowing, either written or verbal.  It’s like I have a vast empty cavern in my chest where all my communication usually simmers along, but is right now just empty and still.  It’s a really strange feeling, like I’ve been hollowed out somehow.    

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I finished a pretty significant rewrite last week and I’m letting it stew a bit before I look to send it to beta readers.  I have another book out currently being read over by my trusted few.  So work does go on, but I sit here in this odd lull, trying to come up with enough words to satisfy my son (and my mother…) and I’m finding it difficult.

I can’t seem to even settle down to read a full book.  I’ve started and stalled out on a half dozen books now from golden age mystery to thriller and nothing’s caught my attention for more than a chapter or two.  There are at least two that I dearly want to finish— especially considering the trouble I’ve been having keeping one on my Kindle long enough to actually read the thing.  Dumb computer seems to dislike it simply because I bought it from Smashwords rather than Amazon.

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Perhaps I should go for a hike.  Perhaps I used all of my social abilities over the weekend and need to go away for a while and commune with the outdoors.  Maybe I should go  sit in my favorite cafe and have coffee and a croissant and pretend to work on something just so I can absorb the strange joy of being solitary in a bustle of people?

I’m not sure.  Hopefully I will find my words again in the next few days.  I have a long summer of adventures to enjoy and I hope to be able to bring some of them to you fine folks.  Vicarious enjoyment is enjoyment just the same, after all.

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