In the soft light of the Christmas tree I fumble for words to finish a chapter, but fogged from a long day, my mind refuses to release them. I resent the weariness, the sluggishness, the withdrawal of creative thought. This is my time to write.
I put words on paper but they aren’t the right ones. They tell of a scene, but are only a mirage.
This is my time to write but in the silence I listen. I am told instead that it is not my time to write, but my time to rest. It’s not writer’s block, but the reality of my humanity. There is a need to respect limitations. Instead of writing, I will go to bed.
Are you able to push through physical barriers – exhaustion, illness, stress – and continue to write, or do you do a better job of writing if you take time first for rest, refreshment and refilling?