And now I have that rarest of luxuries: an unscheduled Saturday with the house to myself (except for the GRD and the Complaint Department). I should probably be cleaning this place (which has entered its usual Deadline Decline) but I may just declare an actual Day Off (I'm allowed those! I am! It says so!) and hang out with the critters and read a couple of books.
And maybe weed the garden and clean the bathroom and practice guitar and play some Bejeweled or something while I wait for my brain to sort out what happens next in The White City.
It's very hard for me to accept that thinking time is actually a productive and necessary part of my process. Thinking, reading, straying around frowning, staring at the blank white page--all of these are actually writing. Somewhere (probably from reading Piers Anthony's authors notes) I internalized the idea that only actually putting words on paper is working. And it's true: if you don't (sooner or later) get the words on paper, you're not writing--you're lying to yourself and your friends about being a writer.
But like so many things, it's not an absolute. All of that stuff--long drives, manual work that frees my mind to think, new experiences and information--the words and narratives and the people who inhabit them have to come from somewhere. Books require ingredients and cooking, much as I'd like them to spring full-formed from my head. Preferably on a speedy and predictable schedule.
I suppose this alternative does save me a certain number of whacks to the skull with an axe, however.