I should be writing but instead I'm writing about the fact that I should be writing. Am I suffering from early spring fever? I do believe there's a strong indication in this direction. I'm possessed with the desire to rush out into yard and begin digging and poking around in the soil. This morning it was 25 degrees when I went out for my run but my mind refuses to release the idea of sowing seeds and the delicious anxiety of waiting for those first sprouts. I want to rush to the rabbits and gophers and greet them heatrtily
I'm so anxious to begin getting out there and transforming our grassy lawn into the lush cottage garden of my dreams, that I found myself considering changing the season in my novel. The story takes place in the early fall; it's getting cold and a rough winter is on the way. How can I possibly write of winter when spring has sprung. I can directly blame nature for this particularly knotty procrastination spell I've fallen under. It was 65 degrees a couple of days ago, the birds are chirping and spring fever has taken a firm hold.
I should be writing but spring cleaning has me moving furniture, scrubbing, polishing, and tossing out things we don't need. Instead of putting butt to chair, I'm on hands and knees scrubbing scuff marks off the wood floor. I want to paint, transform the inside of the house along with the outside. How can I possibly weave the intricate plotting of a mystery novel when there are millions of color possibilities out there waiting to be explored.
Has spring fever taken hold of you?
