It's the best way I can describe the thing that happens. It comes, almost always, right before I can find the time to sit down and actually create. Writing or design or whatever. This time, let's hope for writing.
It's mostly scene flashes and feeling like I'm not who I am. A removed, hovering feeling, like I'm only inches above my head, floating and waiting to be returned.
Come to think of it, this could also be psychosis.
In my weekly meeting with my boss, I told him that I was doing better, but all I wanted was to have energy for things other than TiVo and smoking. I told him about my writing problem, about how the ideas were there but I couldn't move them from my brain onto the page. He told me that his desire to write hadn't returned since he was divorced. This scared me more than anything that's happened in the last four months. This scared me more than finding her email, more than reading what it was she really thought about us and about me.
Then this made me think that maybe I love my imagination more than I loved her. And this could be entirely true, but part of me thinks that it probably isn't.
I finished Bett Williams' first book today, Girl Walking Backwards. I was going to give up on page 46 or something, but I'm happy I didn't. I think the last 40 pages made it all worthwile, like, buried in the back was her reason for writing it.
I feel like I need a reason to finish this novel, and I think tonight I found it.