I had decided that since my writing mojo has been on and off that I would take this summer off from trying to be a writer. This morning I sat down at the computer to get in some gaming before lunch while Mark headed off to some mates. When I broke out of my reverie I had started what looks to be a new novel.

The bad thing about university and school is this. I read so much, and write so much, that it bleeds into my enjoyment of writing and reading. I don’t have the mental energy to pick up a book and read for pleasure, and I rarely sit down and write something because it is fun. I look at the pile of books on the night table, and realise – I haven’t touched any of them in weeks.

In some ways, reading books and writing stuff has become work. In some ways, it has become a chore to do and finish. And once I’m done and finished, I don’t want to continue doing it. So, I play computer games instead, or sing covers, or anything but that activity which somehow defines who I am.

I’m comforted that it’s just a temporary thing, though, and that when I recharge my batteries it comes back. Like today, when I wrote three thousand words from nine to eleven thirty. And they’re pretty good words. Obviously, it’s a first draft thing that has to be polished and analysed and corrected. But as first drafts go, what I’ve written is pretty good.

And there comes that satisfaction, that warm fuzzy glow that I’ve done it, again. Something I rarely feel when I write a school essay. While I’ve made plans for Mark for the rest of the summer, I also think I want to try and write this story out. If it becomes a novel, so be it. I don’t know at this point, and that also feels good. It’s like I’ve stumbled on an exciting adventure. I want to know how it ends.

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