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  • 7am. He snores next to me. Ruby, our Cairn terrier, stretches out and I feel her back paws push against my leg. This should be one of those peaceful weekend mornings. I should be able to drift off to sleep again. But my head is full.

    I haven’t written anything in three weeks. I dropped the ball about two months ago and since then, despite occasional attempts to pick it up again, the ball has slipped through my fingers again and again. And so here I am, lying in bed at 7am wide awake and staring at the ceiling.

    This is what I am like when I don’t write. I am an addict doing cold turkey. I am lost in a whispering fog; so many questions, so many doubts. I am obsessing about every distraction that pops into my head: work, imagined conversations, TV, a lists of chores. And I am battling that fear, rising from my chest, that it all means nothing at all. The way the sunlight moves across the ceiling… But it’s not enough to get me up, to find my pen and my book and get me back to the page.

    But today, I tell myself, when I can gather up enough energy, I'll get myself out of bed and make it to my writing room. Today I will break the spell. Today I will start again.

    And so this is me.

    Starting again. Again.
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