Some days this experience is harder than others.  Lately, this has been true more of my writing than my wandering.  I’m in a funky middle place in my book where a transition needs to happen but, just like in real life, that transition is hard.  I’m not 100% sure where to go or how to get there.  My characters aren’t speaking to me as clearly as they were.  Since Manda’s visit, I’ve written maybe a chapter and a half and my workaholic side says that’s not enough.  I feel guilty some days for not writing, for sitting at my computer and just thinking, “Uhhhh…” for a lot more time than I’d like to admit, for just not wanting to turn the thing on because I don’t feel inspired and I’m frustrated.  I’m a little tractionless these days.  My wheels are spinning, and I’m inching forward, but it’s slow.  I’m impatient.  I want things done ‘yesterday’ even though I know better.  Then I have to remind myself that writing is like baking: you can’t make it get done any faster than it gets done; try to force it to hurry along and it’s just going to be crap. This is the first time I’ve missed teaching since I quit…and it’s mostly because I knew how to do that, did it well, and never questioned whether or not I was up for the challenge.  Writing, in this respect, is harder than teaching ever was.  I miss the confidence with which I walked into class every day, knowing that I knew exactly what I was doing.  I do not, however, miss grading essays, bell schedules, constant demands, and lack of sleep.  When I start to feel frustrated about this book all I have to do is remind myself of those things and reflect that a week of uncertainty in my writing is worth far more than a day of all that stress.  This week I’ve started moving forward again, and it’s good.  Maybe, just maybe, I’m finding firm ground beneath me again.