I've always found the week between Christmas and New Year to be an otherworldly time. There is such a lead-up to Christmas, and New Year is the beginning of another phase of life.
But that time in between? It doesn't seem to belong anywhere.
My Daye Jobbe shuts down for that week, none of the kids are in school, and His Grace is also on holidays. There is no schedule, no regular pattern, and the only marking of time is sunrise and sunset.
You'd think this would be an ideal time to write, to take all these given free hours to finish (or make significant progress on) a novel.
Yet I find myself unable to write. I feel disjointed. I can't settle in.
Some of my friends are taking this time to ponder on the upcoming year. They are exploring plans and direction and resolutions. I can't do that, because I've already done that. I've already established my yearly plan for 2015, and very little is left to be done. The five year plan is waiting until the Holiday Season is over, and the twenty year and fifty year plans are ticking along nicely. The thousand year plan is accomplished on a day-to-day basis.
it is quiet here.
I should take this time to clean. I need to sort through all the junk that has landed on my desk and put it away, whether that be on a shelf or the round filing cabinet. I should finish that monstrous quilt taking up most of my office. And really, those two things are the only two pressing things on my list.
My usual schedule of life is on hiatus until after the New Year.
Have you ever been stuck in time?
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Her Grace has even re-discovered that most disconcerting of creatures: boredom with lack of motivation.
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