Once upon a time, last week, I found myself in a spooky situation. I was sitting at the little green IKEA desk in front of the window that looks out onto the front stoop of our house. (Sitting here makes package deliveries very… personal. “Hello! Nice to see you! I know you weren’t expecting to see a human sitting right here, but nonetheless, thank you for delivering the laundry detergent and toothpaste that we have so anxiously been anticipating. Have a nice day!”)
Anyway, delivery workers being scared by my disembodied head hovering over the open screen of a laptop through the window is not the spooky part of this story. On this particular day, I was supposed to be typing up a fresh newsletter draft. Something fun and fall-y that would remind you just what a dream this town is at this time of year.
The only problem was that I was stuck. “Writerly constipation,” as I described it to the team members who were awaiting my draft for editing. My draft was technically due the day before and yet here I sat, unable to put a sentence together in any form that felt worthwhile.
I concluded that I would obviously never write anything good ever again, told my husband to buckle up, because I was about to be fired from my job because I had peaked and my best days were behind me, and then decided to go for a walk to clear my head and mentally prepare to never do anything of substance ever again.
Luckily, it was, like, extremely nice outside and one big loop around the block provided me with a whole list in my Notes app of things I wanted to share with you. So. Crisis averted. This time.