After a few months of (forced) literary sabbatical, I’m back on track again. It feels great to find some time to hold a book, write or rewrite a few pages, read and critique a fellow writer’s work, or return to writers’ meetings and book clubs. Nothing feels more wonderful than to lie down on the sofa on a Saturday afternoon, a book resting over my nose, fresh (or even old) scent of paper, ink and glue sending me into an involuntary nap-mode. Nothing in this world smells better than the pages of a well-written book.
Since the day we decided to sell our home (late January) and until we closed on the deal (early May), almost all of my free time went into fixing and painting the walls, cleaning and wiping the windows and furniture, decluttering the overly cluttered home, packing and unpacking our belongings, and finally moving into a new place.
During those few months, I had several opportunities to ponder over the meaning of phrases such as ‘drinking from the firehose’, ‘a chicken with head cut off’, or ‘walk like a zombie’. Strange how sometimes life itself gets in the way of living, how we finally realize our addiction to ‘words’.
Well, that suffocating literary hiatus is all history now, and I hope it won’t ever return.