Every morning I go into my office and begin writing. I work on my book about rare genetic disorders and on my blog about the same topic. I find myself promoting others' work, their research, their endeavors, their papers. I do this because life has led me down this strange path, away from commercially profitable writing and the pottery I love.
Lately my mind has wandered. Somewhere amid the ATP energy production and substrate selection and all the different, horrible disorders, my mind is seeking clay. My fingers can almost feel the moist, smooth, surface give as I turn it on the wheel in my mind. I toy with the idea of hauling out a bag of clay and doing something, anything with it to scratch this itch.
But I don't.
There is the issue of my arm, which screams in pain just watching someone throw, and the pressing need to finish this book so I can move on. What to, I have stopped trying to plan. For plans are for fools.
So everyday, I snap on my office light, pull out my chair, and write.