Avoiding friends

I was supposed to go camping last weekend, and I really didn’t want to, even though I had time. I’ve noticed this sluggishness several times this summer when it comes to any kind of social life. I always feel so preoccupied with the book that I don’t want to do anything else.

That doesn’t make any sense because in a literal way. Camping wouldn’t have interfered with the writing since I was write in the morning, Monday to Friday.

But something—disinclination, superstition—is making me a homebody as long as I’m working on the draft. Don’t want to go out. Don’t want to talk to anybody. Or at least not much. It’s as if keeping the weekends open to just stew on the book feels safer.

I knew I wouldn’t do any real work on it or think about it at all. But the mental state seemeds too fragile to risk. Most weekends I sit around the house watching baseball (even a movie seems too distracting) and not eating right, waiting for Monday morning to come so I can start writing again.

Don’t ask me why I don’t write on the weekends even though I’m not tired in any way. I guess it’s the inherited habit of generations of WASPS not working on weekends.