Lately, in the last few days, I've been sitting here—in my big chair by the window—wondering what I should do next. I get home from work and it's still light out. I sit down and grab my lap-top with ambition, only to realize that there's nothing that I must do right now. What a strange feeling. I don't have my check-list I've gotten so used to over the last year. It's too early to go out in the garden (isn't it?). Too late to go running before dinner (isn't it?). And then it occurred to me: maybe I should get in the habit of writing again. I used to do it every day! Can you believe it?
Now that I think of it, there are other things I'd like to do (is it weird I always get that nesting feeling in the spring rather than the fall?): I'd like to paint some more rooms. Start some tomato plants. Make a photo book from the wedding and honeymoon. Start drawing again. We'll see how long these goals last...
In any case, see? I just wrote 2, now 3, paragraphs about nothing.
At least I wrote. There's 4.