“Writers end up writing about their obsessions. Things that haunt them; things they can’t forget; stories they carry in their bodies waiting to be released.”
My sister returned from a semester in London on Thursday. My older sister and my brother-in-law drive in tonight. My little brother is officially on winter break. I’m home, with my family, and I’m trying this thing where I don’t torture myself by obsessing over the amount of pages I write in a day, or the number of chapters I read, or the minutes spent on the treadmill. I’m trying this thing, you know, where I revel in the now, the holidays, and take it all in minute by minute, and forgive myself when I’m a bit more sloth-like than I’d prefer.
It’s rather nice.
Happy Winter Solstice. Pouring a glass of wine and retreating to sit by the fire for the night, where I think I’ll stay through Christmas, until the New Year.