Lately I am plagued with suspicion. I feel that there is almost certainly something wrong, something that I'm missing. Why, you ask?
I'm not particularly busy.
The first half of this semester was a mad dash, full of reading and projects and meetings and applications. Even two weeks ago I was giving myself headaches trying to finish all my students' papers before midterm grades were due to the department.
Compare that to last week: I completed a short story I started in L.A. over the summer, wrote a new short story, and wrote a new flash fiction piece. I started reading Karen Russell's Swamplandia! just for fun. I've almost finished it. (That's a hard book to say I'm reading "for fun," by the way--it's one of the most sweetly sad novels I've ever encountered. Between that and Sufjan Stevens' new album about his dead mother, I've almost cried multiple times in the past several days.) I have done a great deal of this reading and writing outdoors. The weather is idyllic.
Something has to be wrong, right? But I can't think of what it is.
Emerging Writers Series stuff is manageable at the moment--we only have four fiction candidates left, so essentially all we have to do is rank them. I'm hosting Neon Lit on Friday, but that shouldn't be a problem as long as the readers get back to me on time. (Hint-hint, readers who have not returned my emails who happen to see this post.) My creative project for my Chaos Theory class is off to a good start--most people are responding to me quickly. (If you'd like to help write sentences for me, I'd greatly appreciate it! See this earlier post for details.) I have to write my critical essay, but that's what Spring Break is for.
No doubt my life will plunge back into pandemonium sometime in the not-too-distant future, but I'm going to try to enjoy this brief pause as best I can, anxiety be damned.