10:49 a.m.

It's back to work on The Orchard Is Full of Sound today. Two days off has made me more hesitant than anything else, really. I thought it might give me a chance to reboot and start fresh with new ideas and some kind of steam for pushing through to getting at least the reworked sections placed and building up a different narrative arc. Or not different, but stronger, better woven. Instead, I'm gun-shy.

Maybe the issue is that I have my pain medicine today, Tylenol 3, which always sort of gives me an energy boost (this due to the lifting of my back pain for a period of time) but then leads to a crash. That crash is essentially a sudden wave of grogginess that cuts through any creative drive I might have managed.

I will write on this today. In fact, I'm dead set on getting the manuscript to better match the table of contents outline. Thing is, I had a look at some of the short stories I have in progress yesterday and now my head's in that space.

UPDATE: It's now 4:03 p.m. and I opened the Orchard folder and had a look, got overwhelmed, and then closed it, came here to finish a blog post instead. Not sure how I'm going to finish the book if that's the approach I'm bound to take. What I do know is that writing about not being able to write is getting me nowhere.

10:44 a.m.

Watched a couple short horror films last night. One called I Heart It Too got me in all the spooky spots. Have a look.

5:58 p.m.

Taking two days off from Orchard. Today was the first of two. I've been working four to five hours a day on it for the past month. I'm not good at math but let's give it at try.

Added up that's a total of about 150 hours in four weeks. And I went from a 226-page manuscript down to a 93-page manuscript. Not one solitary word added as of this evening. Tomorrow is another day off, and I should be glad, really. If not, by tomorrow at this time I'd maybe have a 20-page essay, a far cry from my contractual obligation.

Heather talked me into taking the two days off. I didn't complain. It seemed like a good idea then and I know it was a good idea now. Six or seven times today I started to open my laptop, Golden Boy, and dive into my Orchard folder. Each time I did other things instead: I checked Twitter, checked on my MFA students, started to watch a movie on Amazon Prime, and actually did buy a really fantastic cardigan button-up sweater. That's the fourth sweater-type shirt I've bought in the past three days. I also bought a Polo long-sleeve button-up this past weekend. I don't know what's wrong with me.

All I knew was that I had to write something today. Other than days and nights I've had surgery or was in recovery from surgery I have written. Something, anything. But I've written nearly every day for the past 34 years. Wasn't about to let today go by without continuing that obsession. 

10:37 p.m.

Watching the Braves trying to win the pennant. They're leading the series 3-1. But that stupid Seager hit another home run. I hate the Dodgers. Almost as much as I hate the Nationals. But not as much as a hate the Packers. I'd say I will though over the next few years. It's going to clash with the stupid Dodgers for a while. I think we'll win. I get too invested in baseball games. I get nervous, giddy, enraged, elated. I wish I could just watch a ball game without all the emotional pain. 

I nearly aspirated about fifteen minutes ago. Acid reflux. It's about to kill me. That's twice I've almost choked to death in my sleep in the last two weeks. All I know to do is not eat at this point. Nothing is safe after about 5 p.m. I'll have to wash my blanket tomorrow and an outfit to wear to the wedding. I'm tired. I want to just sit here with nothing to do and nothing coming up, nothing to be nervous or worried about.

I'm working on draft eight of Orchard. Burnout doesn't begin to explain where I'm at with this book. All I'm sure about is that this is my last full-length work. I had two novels in progress before I even started this book and I'm going to stop working on them. It's short stories from here on out. Full-length works are just exhausting, and it doesn't help that I'm not as talented at novels and longer nonfiction books. After 34 years writing, I know where I'm strong, and that's with short stories. My novels have been mediocre, and you could fill Truist Park with all the mediocre novels that have been written and exist in this world.

I'm tired even writing about writing.

This fall's MFA class is wrapping up. It was a good one. I had three graduating students. A small class but advanced and enjoyable. And a wide spread of different kinds of literature being written. Fantasy, literary short stories. A good mix. I did the best I could trying to help them become better writers. Sometimes I struggle with that, talking about writing, helping people write better. I don't know if it's because I'm not as good a writer as I think I am or if it's because I've had limited experience talking to other people about writing. No idea. Nothing.

Tired of writing and here I am just pecking away. I've worn out two laptops in the past three years. 

Oh, I also hate Mookie Betts. Stupid Mookie Betts. He's already won a World Series with the stupid Red Sox. Give me a break. 

Go Braves.