I have not been writing. I have been very, very busy not writing. I have been taking out the trash, washing the dishes, and painting my toes to dismal results. I took my hands hostage, forcing them into copying, printing, organizing, and whatever verb that could occupy them. I was updating my resume, my diet, my wardrobe, my life. I was breaking in new shoes and throwing out old bras, curating new playlists and burning old lyrics. I was packing and tossing and cycling and pacing and ignoring the boiling inside.
Life was settling into order, and there was one enormous, insurmountable problem: me.