Every time I take time away from my burgeoning novel, I feel guilty. The few minutes that I’ve spared to write this post is no different, but I wanted to write something that doesn’t have to do with the subject matter.

I think I underestimated the difficulties of writing about my mother’s illness. There was so much that I forgot, and quite frankly WANTED to forget. The good news is that it’s a cathartic experience for me, and will probably do me more good than any therapy session.

I’m a few thousand words behind, so I’m trying to do a few catch-up marathon writing sessions. Last night I managed to eke out 4,300 words — about 10 pages or so. It was a meaningful chunk. The problem is that today I have absolutely no interest in writing, or even looking at that book. Not good, because the point was to catch up, not burn myself out.

So, I’m sitting in Starbuck’s (aka my office), doing some “real work,” trying to coax myself into writing more when I’m done. We’ll see what happens.