There's been lots of time to think.
Too much, maybe.
Recently the thinking has overtaken the reading and the writing. Neither having much to offer in comparison at the moment.
The kid's are off which makes a difference. Routines go to pot. If you can call my daily spending of time a routine. I've even made jokes to myself via Twitter about the benefits of doing nothing - Was it Jung who spurned a ladies appointment because he had marked the time in the diary as his own? She saw him later, dawdling by the river, doing nothing special to her mind: but of course he writes it differently.
I have exactly what I wished for - Time. To. Read. And Write.
So what's the problem?
There isn't one, per se.
Some writing has in fact been done. I am aware of deadlines though not any set by an agent or editor. More to do with life getting on and you know, not getting any younger, better crack on, love.
I withdrew from CBT therapy recently. It wasn't for me, too focused, too disciplined. I need time, it seems and allowing it to pass me by is actually more therapeutic than the ticking box variety. I never was into ticking boxes. The world has gone tickey-box mad to my mind. I tell my children that being happy is more important than wealth but I fear they might not escape the bureaucracy if they do not learn to understand the dance.
I understood the dance but couldn't find a way out until fate played a part in my escape. I'm not complaining, merely making an observation. I'm both disappointed with myself for not having the strength to change beforehand and proud to find I have more strength now than I ever thought possible.
Cause and effect. Simple. Just like writing except this is real life.
I'll take it though, regardless of personal cost. I made my pact and can now smile as I lay a coin in the leathered palm of the ferryman.