All is a little too quiet. The water of the lake is still, unmoved, the air too hot, too thick and heavy.
For once I don’t feel the need to rush, nor a need to complete any productive tasks. It’s a lazy afternoon and I know I’ll regret it tomorrow when the sun rises and the alarm chirps in my ear signalling another work day.
I taste sweet apples and raspberries on my lips, the cool rose press refreshing and relaxing.
The sun is too hot here which is strange because I love the summer heat when I’m abroad. Maybe the sun here is too harsh, a reminder that I am not on holiday and I should be doing something productive.
What are you doing lazing about? It screams, burning me for my sins.
You are allowed to relax, I remind myself, taking a sip from the glass, my mind alive with all the possibilities the following week may hold and the future plans in the back burner which my savings are trickling into. You can lay back and enjoy the day, you don’t always have to work.
I force myself to read a magazine, Condé Nast Traveller, and sigh at all the wonderful inspiration this glorified advert disguised as a piece of literature has to offer. One day. One day I’ll get there, I just have to keep working, keep picking at the sculpture until it’s perfect.
My imagination runs wild when I finally let go, my first draft completed, my second manuscript well under way, a third idea pops into my head, a sequel to the prequel, a story for the villain. I let it play out until I can’t take it anymore and I make a quick note in my journal so I don’t forget the concept. It extends far beyond a brief note, ending up as more of a new outline before I finally put down the pen.
I stand up as the clicks signify the washing machine has finished. Another chore, another weekend, another season passing me by.
Surely I’ll get my big break soon enough?