After a great deal of traveling and further adventuring, I got back to Virginia a week and a half ago. I’ve since been trying to get my feet under me in the dayjob and feeling out the new balance of my days.
I’d say overall being home is good, but it’s certainly different. I’ve been reading a lot, and catching up as much as possible with friends, and taking care of personal and house projects that were previously back-burnered.
The thing about being a writer is that you cannot actually stop writing. It’s a compulsion. Or rather, this is a thing for me. I’m not sure why anyone would get into this field if you weren’t compelled. It’s kind of hard, and it’s taken me going on eight years to actually understand the business end of it even vaguely. When I’m writing I can’t hang out with my friends and family, or rest, or whatever it is people do when they’re not writing. But I can’t stop doing it. It’s part of my DNA. Coming home has made that clearer than ever, as I try to step back a bit and make space for all the other things that make up a life. It feels a bit like I have suddenly become a pull-apart bread.
At least pull-apart bread is delicious.
The most profoundly unsettling part of coming home was how the faucet handles felt under my hands. This is not a thing that you think about in your day-to-day life, but faucet handles have weight! I lived in three separate domiciles while I was traveling, and stayed multiple days in other places. Yet when I came home and went to turn on the bathroom sink, it felt alien. I wondered who had replaced my bathroom sink in my absence.
This sensation soon faded, and I have, for the most part, settled back into my house. Foods still taste strange — I suspect my palette has shifted during my travels. It’s like I’ve been asleep for a long time and now I’m awake. It’s not bad to be awake. It’s just…sort of disorienting.
Anyway, I’m sure it will make for a good story sometime.