During non-writing days I find myself restless, unable to focus on one thing. I’m reading an Opinion piece in the paper, suddenly stop mid-article to go to the book shelf and grab a gardening book, water bromeliads that probably don’t need it, brew some coffee. Caffeine — that ought to do it Even reading, which usually provides ideas for writing, is affected: I jump from one book to another, finishing none. This state adds to my abiding anxiety. I don’t know where my anxiety comes from for certain, but I do know that it skyrockets when I’m not writing. (I won’t even go into the exponential rise in self-loathing!)

As I write this blog entry, I remind myself that in fact I have been writing—this entry and also an essay. I return to the essay every few days, adding a small paragraph here, cutting and pasting there, and rewording pretty much everywhere. I’m beginning to feel better, one word, one comma, one sentence at a time.

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