This month, and, above all, this past week, I have had to shed my creative self like a snake-skin and slither back into my smooth professional self. There are many things I enjoy about my work (performing in front of a mostly attentive audience, having my opinions mostly respected, getting paid most of the time). Yet I can see that it is not conducive to writing.
So diametrically opposed to writing is this kind of itinerant consulting life (there, I’ve said it, that’s what I am!), that I found myself struggling to write even those book reviews I have been planning to write for the past 2-3 weeks. Not just because of travelling, being tired, faulty or overpriced wireless networks at hotels… but because my words have all been used up.
When you use persuasive language, corporate jargon and the left side of the brain exhaustively, it becomes nearly impossible to fall in love with words again. I no longer want to play with them, soothe them with a lullaby, tease them with a come-hither look, bend them to my will or surprise them and myself. All I want is blessed silence.
And escapist books to read.
findingtimetowrite 