Reason not to Write #8: Naps.

I love naps, plural. And long walks. And small talk with strangers. But I learned at an early age that careers don’t generally include these activities. (I felt astutely prepared for a nine to five.) It took me a while to confront the lion in my driveway: what is productivity?

For a while it felt productive to sit in front of the computer and try. That is, until I realized I wasn’t writing. Anything. (Blank pages provide poor inspiration.) But naps gave me vivid dreams; aimless walks set scenes.

What did you do today? someone asks.

Took a few short naps, went for a walk, talked to this guy I didn’t know.

I dread the question to this day.

 

As it turns out though, I’m maturing. I’m also fortunate to live with a supportive husband in a place where art has value. And so it might, after all, only be my neighbor’s housecat.

In the Black Forest, Germany

In the Black Forest, Germany

 

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