Writers have different neural connections, different DNA. When the Carpenters' song came out forty years ago, I didn't quite understand it--I love rainy days and Mondays. I love the winter. (Okay, today isn't Monday, but so what.)
But, blah, I simply must get out today. First off I need to buy some new paint brushes for a canvas I'm doing as a favor for Linda. I tend to use large-bristled brushes because I'm mostly a non-objective painter, though my work is informed with images from the Hubble telescope and other celestial sights. And we need to do the usual weekly shopping.
But I was thinking about how addictive having a hermitage can be. A writer is someone who lives in her or his head. And since we live in the country, I can't walk to town--we're seven miles from the closest convenience store. But I can walk to the creek. I can take a slow walk on my trails in the woods. And I can read and write and listen to classical music--all things I've spent my entire life doing.
I have to lunge almost to leave this sinecure now that I'm retired. Later this year I'll be back out on the road promoting a new book, but for now, I'm hanging out in my study. But I do need go get those brushes.