Yesterday I took the morning off and wrote a short story.
I felt a bit guilty, but then told myself: you want to be a writer, don't you? If writing is work, don't feel bad about doing it in work time. That's what work time is for.
I have trouble writing in the evenings; morning is my most creative time. Some of my most creative fiction has been written at the workplace on the boss' time (but then I'm such a fast worker nobody ever noticed).
What a relief to actually write a story again. I've been bereft of plots for ages. It's as if my imagination has dwindled, and my sense of fun has hibernated.
Perhaps it's because I've taken two whole weekends off in a row, and given myself mental space. I've done different things: I've gone to the local show, I've been out and about on a Sunday drive around Kurrajong and Ebenezer and the countryside around Sydney's north west. I haven't spent at least half the weekend chained to the desk. Next weekend I'm going to the races at Hawkesbury. I'm starting to feel a bit more like a normal human being.
Anyway my muse - who I believe is female and may be called Fred as she's a bit quirky at times - paid me a visit and I went into a writing fugue. I came up for air sometime around 1pm feeling a bit peckish and very satisfied with an entire draft of my story written.
Re-reading it today and making some relatively minor edits, it's as good as I thought it was yesterday when I'd completed it.
Happy happy happy.