I’m not exactly on the clock. No TPS report due anytime soon. No boss man breathing down my neck. Just my own inner literary agent needling me like a mosquito: Hey bub, this mythological novel of yours, anyone ever gonna see it?
I admit, words haven’t been forthcoming. Too many distractions, too many little, practical demands, all of which take me away from the difficult task of sitting in a room in silence, long enough for words to flow.
We are still occupied with settling in, doing the million-odd things that need to be done before one can feel settled. In our basic division of labor, this is my area of
I have two duties: 1) Figure out how to do things; and 2) Get things done. I’ve met with limited success. We have a car now and a bank account. Yippee!
But everything takes longer in another country. Simple tasks defy simplicity. And, as ever, I am obstructed by the Great Wall of Chinese.
It is to be expected; this is how it goes; you have been here before, Dahlia reminds me almost daily, and I tamp down expectations and redouble my efforts.
Given the context, a weekend away seems an extravagance, an unconscionable waste of a nonrenewable resource—time. But perhaps a jaunt is exactly what is needed, the very thing to rescue the writer from the creative doldrums.
We shall see.