Ironically, I’m reading Stephen King’s “On Writing.” I should say “reading” because what I actually do is pick up the book, read a few pages and then let it sit on a shelf for a few weeks. At this rate I should be able to finish it during the winter of 2031.
Asked if he wrote every day Stephen observed that when he was writing he wrote every day, and when he wasn’t writing he didn’t write at all. It’s not work, he said, it’s where he goes to play. Not writing is work.
I puzzled over that for a while, realizing that I have been in the “off” position for a week or so, and concluded not to fret about it.
Tonight it’s back to Austin for a day or so and another dinner at the Iron Cactus. I envy myself.