Did’ja ever just … stop?

About a month ago, I did.

I just … stopped.

Stopped writing.

It was, and is, a most peculiar feeling. Nothing prompted it. I wasn’t burned out, or ill, had ‘writer’s block’, felt stressed, over-committed elsewhere, or anything that I could point to and say, ‘that’s why.’

In the movie ‘Forrest Gump’, there’s a part where Forrest is unable to process what he’s feeling and he starts to run, (the only thing he’s ‘good’ at) away from his home, down the driveway and along the street. He keeps running. Across the US, from one coast to the other, then he turns around and runs back across the country until he hits the other coast. He does this a couple’a times until one day he’s running along a deserted road in the middle of nowhere, and he just … stops.

Come to think of it, that’s what he does throughout the movie. He does a thing, until it’s done, then he stops.

That’s what happened. I was doing a thing, and then I … stopped.

And now …

And now … I’m starting again.

Isn’t that odd?