I’m back home in Canada after a month in the UK. As expected, it is cold. The icicles outside my window reach from the roof to the windowsill. I don’t think they count as icicles anymore. They are more like columns, or prison bars. It’s the kind of weather that makes your face hurt when you go outside.
Not that I’ve actually been outside today. No, instead I’ve unpacked, done laundry, cooked tomatillo chicken chilli (slowcooker I love you), built myself a standing desk out of boxes and a photo album (I miss all the standing up from my teaching days), caught up on Woman’s Hour, done the washing up, finished off and submitted a Tofugu article, drunk more tea than is probably healthy, made a “creative consistency” progress chart out of masking tape, half built a paper model of a Japanese castle, started job hunting, and watched a lot of Youtube videos. Productive procrastination.
Standing desk isn’t the name of the monster. It’s actually Frankenstein’s standing desk.
I managed to write a bit too. Not as much as I want, but it’s a start. I don’t know why I have such gut scrunching fear whenever I go to write. Once I start it’s fine, but the starting is excruciating. Yet I want to be a writer. I want to get these stories out of my head and onto the page. Tomorrow I will write more, and the next day even more, and so on. That’s the plan.