Breathing in and out
Following a tour, I set aside days to breathe in, and breathe out.
I tidy and scrub, I unpack my suitcase and shove it into the back of the closet, I wander out to the deck with a cup of coffee and reflect that I really should do something about the weeds. I go to a movie with the family. Maybe even two movies.
I do not write. I do not open the folder with the printout of the next book, although I may touch it as I unearth my writing space from its heap of accumulated debris. I do not hold editorial conversations with my editor. I do not pass GO. And I do not collect my $200.
I have been home for five days now. My suitcase is mostly empty, although not yet back in the closet. The various objects I promised to mail are in a neat stack on the pool table/work surface. I am down to my last half-dozen unanswered emails, my last two inches of unread Time and Newsweek magazines, my last four days of unread newspapers.
Today I will finish the emails, carry the various packages out to the car for mailing, empty the suitcase, and shove it into its space in the closet. Then I will make myself a cup of tea, climb the stairs to my study, sit down, and pick up a pencil, to open the folder with the 340 existing pages of The Green Man.