I'm one of those people who spends their time off working. So when I got some time off work for the holidays, I spent almost all of it working on my novel. Much of the bulk of that time was spent revising. Eventually, though, I entered into the realm of writing new material.
I was nervous about that. Would I do it? Would I fail? Would it be good? Would it be bad? Would I ever stop trying to figure out if my writing is "good" or "bad"?
Regardless, it ended up being a positive, productive experience.
I suppose it is true to say that I have been derailed by various things at time in the last few years, some within my control and some not, although I have always seemingly been able to slip back in the saddle. I don't know why this is the case. Probably the inexorable pull of destiny. Or my penchant for self-mortification of the flesh. Or maniacal narcissism.
It felt good, though. Like my brain was working again. Like dormancy was over, and it was time to get out in the forest and start killing again. And it woke me up and made me feel less asleep.
This morning, I had a dream I was laying in bed with a man whose identity I could not recall upon waking, and I was exclaiming: "It makes perfect sense my narrator is crazy -- that's what makes him unreliable!"
[See also: unreliable narrator]