There’s a rhythm to writing that’s hard to describe unless you’ve lived it. It’s not about flow, productivity, word count, or even deadlines; it’s about movement. That sense that your mind, even on a nature walk, is turning over, processing, sorting, sharpening. Even when the words don’t seem quite right, at least you know the engine is running. It may be on cruise control or in first gear, but it’s running.
When I write regularly, almost daily, I feel grounded. I feel awake and present. But things start to unravel when I don’t, especially over a long stretch like a three-day weekend (yes, three days is a long time for me not to write). The engine stalls and the rhythm breaks. And I don’t feel a little off—I feel like I’ve lost something important.
The last long weekend in Canada, May 17-19, I gave myself permission to rest. Full stop for three days. No deadlines, no personal or professional projects, no word counts, no blogs, no notebook and pen, no pressure. It was peaceful. It was quiet. It was, well, … uncomfortable. I read once that Stephen King not just likes, but has to write every day or he goes a little crazy. The story, perhaps apocryphal, reflects the mind of many writers. I’m not in his league, but I understand where he comes from.
Day one? Fine. Yeah, it’s nice to visit friends, do a nature walk, read a print publication, stare out at the lake or off into space and not think about anything; just let my mind go where it goes as long as it doesn’t go into negative territory because the way my mental circuitry is, negative thinking tends to spiral. Day two? Another nature walk, a few errands, more reading, and hanging with a different group of friends. I am a little restless, but it’s manageable. Day three? Forget it. I felt like I was crawling out of my own skin. Not from boredom, but from the absence of something I’ve come to rely on: the act of writing. Not for show, not even always for public consumption —just writing as a way to breathe through this thing we call life. It was nice to rest my eyes from looking at the computer and phone for three days, and they did need it, but damn it, where was my notebook and pen.
I’m not saying I can’t take a break. I’m saying I shouldn’t take too long of one. Because somewhere between “well-deserved rest” and “completely unplugged” lies a dangerous place for me: disconnection. My brain doesn’t slow down just because I stop typing. When I stop writing, it starts spinning harder. Not out of control racing thoughts, serious stress harder. More like a controlled, thoughtful spin. Thoughts pile up like unread emails and I lose my rhythm, my clarity, my sense of direction. I get antsy and frustrated, and feel like I’m stagnating. On day four, like the working Tuesday after the holiday Monday, it’s a struggle to find my rhythm again, and I do what I call piecework and grinding it out —a bit of this, a bit of that. I’m fine by the afternoon, but Tuesday morning, while I do get stuff done, is haphazard. I don’t have my best stuff workwise, or for more personal writing and blogging. I realize everyone eases back into things after a long weekend, but for me, this can be any three-day stretch of not writing. So, do I bring my laptop when heading to a sun-soaked destination for a week or more? Sometimes, but it usually stays dark. However, I do bring something to read, my phone for photographs, and a notebook and pens to jot down the memories from the trip and whatever else comes to mind.
Some people restore themselves through silence, sleep, or solitude. I need a few words on a page. Not a masterpiece; just movement. That’s the key. It’s something to signal that I’m still in motion and still in the game. Still connected to that part of me that makes sense of this world by stringing letters into thoughts and thoughts into something worth holding onto. And when I skip that process for too long, everything else feels just a bit off. It’s a surreal place that makes me feel as if I exist in a parallel universe I don’t belong in.
The irony? I believe in rest and sometimes grumble that I need a break. I’ve run on empty. I’ve been burned out more than once. I mean, truly burned out, check yourself into a hospital severe exhaustion, where even writing was a chore (which is when I realized how deep into the hell I was) burnout. And in the last few years, I’ve dealt with several things that are categorized as trauma, some that defy explanation, and both my mind and body have responded accordingly (Maybe I will write about that publicly someday, and maybe that surreal, parallel universe feeling comes partly into play here as a trauma response). I know what happens when you push too hard for too long. I just think there’s a difference between resting and disconnecting from what centers you. And for me, writing—however small, however sloppy—is what brings me back to myself.
I’ve been prolific recently, perhaps it is the unshackling I spoke of in an earlier blog. This is all that stuff, good and bad, that has happened in my 60+ years being pumped to the surface in one form or another. Eventually, it may all come out in published form, much of it is still unpublished, some visceral and some not so much. A friend asked me about all this writing spewing out of me over the last few months, as I’ve slowly recovered from burnout and those traumatic events I mentioned. He asked, “Why now?” “I don’t know,” I responded. “Maybe it’s just time for it to come out.”
So no, I’m not complaining about the long weekend. But I’ve learned this: I need to write five days a week, six is better. It’s not about pressure; it’s about a pressure valve and peace. If I go too long without it, I don’t relax. I unravel. Writing isn’t just how I earn a living. It’s how I stay sane and how I process the hard stuff and find the beauty in the quagmire.
And that’s the thing I’ll carry into the next long weekend. I can rest. I should rest. But I also need to scribble down a thought or two, maybe even shape a paragraph. Not because anyone’s waiting for it, but because I am. I don’t write to impress; I write to stay alive. And three days without it? That’s pushing my luck.
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