I started writing on my novel today for the first time in, I want to say weeks, but it’s probably more accurately described as months. i gave myself the holidays off. I was travelling home for Christmas, and time with my best friend was going to be limited as it was. I was already losing momentum and had to do some rethinking anyway. Then I got back to Halifax and had to start prepping for a reading and then I was freaking out about the reading, and I let the novel get away from me. I let myself think about another novel, about 15k words I have written that I want to double into a novella, at least. It’s about Shakespeare (the plays, not the man), which means, yay, rereading my favourite speeches and rewatching my favourite adaptations, which means, nope, not writing. I started taking more photos. Now that I know I’m leaving Halifax at the end of June, I’m trying to suck all the marrow out of the bones before I go. I started drawing again, taking a life drawing class, carrying a sketchbook. I started to redefine myself as a visual artist, rather than a writer.