2000-08-16
The past two evenings I've spent time working on fiction, remembering just how much I can enjoy doing so. Like many things in my life, it seems to require a massive effort to get started, to overcome inertia. Once I've begun, though, momentum carries me along, happily.
Lately I've been feeling anti-social (or is it asocial?). I want to be home, alone or with B and the dogs, all of whom are pretty undemanding. Interacting with people feels onerous. It's not fear or anxiety, just disinterest. It makes me a little nervous, this insular tendency, but maybe it's only a phase. Or maybe it isn't a phase, maybe it's the way I am and it's still fine.
Last week after work one day I went to a friend's house. I like her and her husband and their kid, I do, but from the moment I arrived I felt this magnetic pull to my home. B was going to a meeting directly from work that night so I had the excuse of the dogs to get home to, but beyond that I just didn't like being away from home for such a long time.
An explanation occurs to me: maybe mulling over the prospect of having a child makes me inclined to grab any peace and quiet while I still can.
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