For a year and a half you do not write. You do not work on your novel or even think about it. The characters fade in your mind and lose their distinct personalities. You use your computer for stupid shit on the Internet. You carry around a small notebook but don’t write in it. Journal writing, noting observations of places and people, sketching out short narrative, eking out short stories – you do not make time for these anymore.
Things change. You transfer at your job. You now have a grueling hour bus commute each morning and evening that lasts for over three months. You come home exhausted with little time for writing or running. By the time you make dinner it’s late, and you go to bed and do it all again the next morning. Other things throw you off-balance. You become a lay Buddhist, pass your driver’s test and put a down payment on a car three days later, experience heartbreak, discover trail running and complete your first 5K, and have your first surgery.
Things change and throw you off-balance, and you grow. You feel fantastic and miserable about your life all at the same time. The routine in your life becomes about surviving a new work environment, nursing a broken heart, and running and meditating to pull through it all.
The spark for writing is not with you. For a year and a half you do not lift a pen.