Nothing makes me so keenly aware of time like November. The masks of Halloween put away, the dread of over filling dinners yet to come. At work one grading period is finished leaving only 3 left to ram everything into. It's deceiving. It feels longer than it is. Same with writing. I took a little break, a couple of weeks turned into months, and from there it spirals. It seems so hard to start again.
But that's another hoax of time. I'd broken from routine, not writing. Note cards with scribblings, electronic pages with disjointed ramblings and half coherent impressions. They were just layered under the sticky notes and tabs reminding me to do the same thing I've forgotten to three days in a row. Distracted not retired. The weariness has crept into my bones but so did the muse. The desires still there, the pieces just have to be put back together. But that's another great thing about this time of the year. I love the smell of burning wood in a fireplace. The nice thing about a fire, once started the occasional stoking is all you need to make it roar back.