Missing
My kid sister, this blog’s number one fan, chastised me at the breakfast table for not updating. She’s a sweet kid, but she doesn’t know anything about the creative process. An artist does not simply pick up where they left off after they have relocated to a different continent, and, worse than that, started working again. This move’s temporariness has given me license to be negligent. It is only for a month, I say, and then all will be back to normal. I have worked six days in a row, fifty-five hours, not including the three hours of commuting each day, which is not as bad as it sounds, because that’s when I read. But it leaves me with little time or energy for writing, which I am still young at, so it takes me a good hour or two to prepare myself to do it. Add to that the three hours of writing and the hour it takes to post, and you see how my days are filled when it looks like I am doing nothing. Now that I am doing something—and a lot of it—it is nearly impossible to do all that no
