I should be working on my second novel, sending out queries, writing blog posts, but I can't stop reading. In order to write this, I had to put the book I am reading aside, promising to pick it back up once I knock this out.
Something is going on with me. When I think about doing the things I should be doing, I can feel my heart sigh, my lungs seize, and I want to curl into a ball. I don't feel particularly funny. I don't feel remotely insightful. And I know I have been here before.
I can officially say I'm in a funk...again.
Did the funk start before or after reading? I think the books I've been reading might be a contributing factor. The subject matter hasn't been overly cheery. I devoured Emily Gould's memoir, And the Heart Says Whatever, and did the same with the novel Room, by Emma Donoghue. I couldn't put either book down. They both took me on dark journeys I had not been on before. And they were both wholly magnificent.
The isolation of what I do is catching up with me. I read alone; I write alone. There is no one for me to talk to about the books I have read because no one around me has read them. There is no one for me to talk to about writing because everyone around me is taking a different path. But this isn't a Bell Jar situation. I just think the characters I've been spending my time with are garnering more attention than the people I see everyday. And I'm finding that a real bitch to deal with.
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