…there are days like this. When the flesh between the metacarpals of your hand feels turgid and sore. When you’re yawning and staring bemusedly out at the sunshine, wandering: what’s going on at the park? When the immediacy of your characters has sunk back into an anesthetizing fog, so that if you squint you can still make them out, left standing in their poses from the night before, but they seem to lack animus, vitality, and would probably do just fine if left alone for a day or two.

Days like these you want to close your laptop and grab a book and a mug of tea and give the whole writing shtick a break. Maybe your attitude will change toward the evening, but for now, everything feels stale, flat, and profitless. Perhaps you’ve been running on red for too long. Perhaps you’ve been running on fumes. Perhaps you’ve been running on autopilot, or like Wile E. Coyote, running on air.

Either way.

For every week of writing fever there is a day of lotus-eater’s malaise. When you wish you were on a boat on a river with tangerine trees and marmalade skies.

Days like these, you don’t want to write about life. You want to go out and live it.