None of it really matters. I haven't been writing. I've been thinking about writing. I've been beating myself up about not writing. Instead of writing I've been spending hours in the yard, digging in the soil, planting carrots and kale and beets. Because at the end of the day I can point at what I've done out there and say, here, this exists.
Not like writing.
Other things I've been doing: I finally leveled one of my World of Warcraft characters to 85, and then I canceled the account the next day. I've been rereading the Harry Potter series since I never finished books 5-7. Today I finished book 2.
I've been spending time with friends. On Friday I went on a ghost tour with Eliza and met her husband for a rare night of drinks downtown. On Saturday, Jer and I bought 25 bags of river pebbles from Home Depot and spread them in the yard. We went to Sky Nursery and bought Wickwar Flame Heather and Purple Sage and Japanese barberry and spinach and Walla Walla onion starts.
On Sunday we worked in the yard again and then hung out with friends in the evening at a housewarming party in West Seattle.
Today I recorded three podcasts, critiqued two stories, planted more vegetables, and packed for WorldCon. It's amazing how even these small responsibilities stretch me thin.
Tomorrow I'll be getting on a plane for Chicago and I expect I'll have an amazing time and be inspired and have lots of strange and wonderful experiences.
And sharing all of this is not meant to be read as complaining. Sometimes despite my best efforts I get frustrated and need a break. So I'm taking a little break, by driving myself to exhaustion.
It's just this thing I do.