I didn’t intend to stop writing so abruptly, back in January.

I have a pattern, though, of “serial obsessions.” I don’t seem to be constructed for BALANCE, or even for a varied blend of activities or areas of focus… I’ll jump into the deep end of a thing (“All in!!”–That’s me. Whatever “it” may be, “it” will not be handled half-assedly!), I’ll set myself up with study and supplies and a work-space, and I’ll put forth a shit-ton of whatever “it” is that’s currently obsessing me.

Some of my past areas of hyper-focus have been greenhouse-gardening, quilting, “antiquing” furniture pieces I picked up at Goodwill, crocheting afghans, creating and testing herbal remedies, making jewelry, screen-printing shirts, painting in watercolors and drawing with charcoal, writing fiction…

And READING, always reading. Some times it’s even heavier than others (like this year: I’m “96 books ahead of schedule” in my GoodReads 2026 Reading Challenge), but whatever the rate, I’m always reading. It seems to be the one obsession that doesn’t involve creating something. (Well, as I think about it… Sudoku and the NYT crossword have had their turns as well—so I guess there have been a few subjects without actual products…)

For most of the winter of 2025 my fixation was cross-stitching while listening to audiobooks. Then in the summer I suddenly put down the embroidery hoop and jumped to creating and publishing several books that had been half-formed for a long time in the back of my mind (and the backs of some notebooks). And in September—stalled out on my exegesis of the book of Deuteronomy (sadly ironic, since I did get through the books of Numbers and Leviticus, which are, shall we say, rather less riveting)—I opened a new tab on my turquoise and whale-stickered laptop, and began, again, to post here.

Never mind Deuteronomy—the energy and attention had shifted! All of my free time went to blogging. There’s enough going on in the life of a mind to furnish near-daily posts, and I was loving writing them. Until… the “switch” flipped and suddenly (in an obsession that is utterly UNcharacteristic for me) I wanted to spend all my free time working out. I was bygod gonna offload the last fifteen pounds of the goal I’d set for myself. (Did it, too. Thirty pounds last winter, sixty altogether.)

I actually used up two treadmills. Granted, these weren’t “gym quality” machines—but that might still an indicator of EXCESS. (Excessable, that’s me!)

When I ran out of steam on the treadmill, the next activity waiting in line for ALL of my attention turned out to be reading. As in, more-than-usual-even-for-ME reading (hence the 96 books “extra”).

From a purely intellectual or logical standpoint, it would make a great deal more sense to mix things up a little, to spread out my time among several of the many things that I (at some point) have enjoyed doing… From a purely rational or practical standpoint, it would make perfect sense to read (or work out, or paint, or sew, or…) just a tiny bit less—spending “a lot” of the time instead of “ALL” of it—and wouldn’t it be nice to put that tiny bit of time-and-energy toward an occasional blog post? My logical-brain quite likes the idea.

I’ve even tried, a number of times, to push-and-bribe myself into doing just that. I DO love checking things off a good checklist, and I’ve faffed around with any number of to-do-list apps—trying to broaden my own focus a little by including an array of items in the week’s to-do’s. Write something. Clean something. Read something. Do something. Make something. It seems entirely reasonable to sprinkle in a handful of to-do’s that would broaden the experiences of a given week. Reasonable, yes. It’s just… I’m just not built for it. I don’t function that way.

You would think—wouldn’t you?—that a change of pace would even be welcome, especially when I’ve just completed something intensive. When I finally signed my name to a portrait that had taken dozens of hours, you’d think it would have been a pleasure—maybe even a relief—to straighten and stretch out my back after hunching it over a sketch pad for so long, to unclench my grip on the charcoal pencil, to take off my reading glasses and look around at some parts of the world that were more than eight inches away from my face… But can you guess my mind’s answer to that reasonable idea? My mind replied: “Draw!Draw!Draw!Draw!Draw!Draw!Draw!Dr”… There will be no negotiations. No deals brokered, no accommodations reached, no plans changed, no convincing or persuading or bribing, no quarter given. Get out of my way: we are going to DRAW now.

Until we’re not.

Living in this brain of mine, it’s an all-or-nothing world.

So I didn’t intend to stop writing so abruptly in January—but that dang switch got flipped. Daily Blogging: OFF. Excessive Reading: ON.

My mind needs the equivalent of a dimmer switch.

Well, here goes an attempt. I’ve set down a half-finished (reading-)book, and I’m picking up my nearing-finished (writing-)book. We’re into the home stretch of our busy summer-season at the RV park, heading toward the season where there’s a little more time, and I’m determined to spend it at the keyboard. And hey, if I’m already sitting down at the computer… well, then, I’m thinking it won’t be such a struggle to get myself to write HERE as well. We shall see.

What a strange brain it is, when I have to convince myself to do something that I enjoy so much when I’m doing it.

We’re about to find out some stuff: (1) Can I END the current obsess/excess activity (of reading) before it is actually done with me? (2) Can I CHOOSE the next obsess/excess activity (because I want it to be writing)? And (3) Can I TRICK my brain into believing that “writing” encompasses blogging as well as fictioning, when my brain tends to treat them as entirely separate pursuits?

If my brain doesn’t hold me hostage doing something else, I’ll let you know!

In the meantime… My nightgown says, “I read past my bedtime.”