Therapy Time

Thank you all for the kind words. I’ll reply later, maybe today.

I’m feeling a sort of ennui, or possibly an enuii. I don’t recall which one, and I can’t seem to muster the energy and focus it would take to actually find out. Easier, I feel, to permit the entropy of the thing carry us along and hope for the best.

Without actually going to the trouble of hoping, mind you.

I’ve been toying with various thoughts on why this might be, and I’ve hit upon one I sort of like. Maybe I’m sad because, for 29 days, I was talking about whatever suited me for hours at a time. I like to talk. I enjoyed telling the story I told. I enjoyed playing with the situations and the people.

And now *shuddering indrawn breath* they are gone.

Certainly, there is editing to do, and another book to write (and, I suspect, another and another and another), but this book is gone. I won’t ever wonder what is going to happen next in this book. I know what is inside of every goat in the story (sorry, you’ll have to read it. A lot of goats get blown up in this book.); they hold no more caprine surprises for me.

Caprine — how did I miss using that word in this book? Huh.

I went to lunch today, Neo in hand, and strolled slowly to the car. There was no urgency today; if I had five less minutes to write, it wasn’t a big deal. I drove to the coffee shop, and past it. I didn’t really want anything to drink, and I didn’t get to play with Wendal (protagonist) today. I aimed for the library, but passed it by, too. I tried for a deep, pathos-filled sigh, but couldn’t really find one.

Finally, at a loss for direction, I came back to the office, where I sat and mused. Well, sat and moped. After a time I hit upon my theory, as noted above.

It is not in me to note a need, decide on it’s fulfillment requirements, note that they are in my grasp, and not put it to work. So. If all I needed was to hear my voice, I’m good. If I am just mourning a story that won’t be new for me anymore, well, I’ll work that one tonight or tomorrow by getting into Feel For Death again. I like Gordon, I like the story, I’ll be happy there.

If those don’t work, I’ll consider heavy drinking at lunch.

3 thoughts on “Therapy Time”

  1. There seem to be some similarities between this fugue state and what we in the drama department call ‘Closing Night Blues’ wherein, the week after a show closes, you sort of wander about in a daze because suddenly that which absorbed your entire life is suddenly absent and you have not arranged for anything to fill that howling sucking void.

    Just sayin’.

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