It’s not writer’s block, it’s writer’s fatigue — the inability to think about words any longer, the desire to be outside where it is hot and muggy and teeming with northeastern ticks. I can’t even bear the computer screen another moment, hot in my lap, glaring at me to absorb more, learn more, produce more. I should be glad that I over-worked myself to a state of waste, but instead, I chasten myself for being out of shape. A fitter writer would work longer, harder and not wish for rain to entrap her indoors. She would need only her strong will power to sustain her. But I am weak. I make excuses. I am in transition. Having been writing for only two hours a day for the last four years (since the birth of my daughter), how can I possibly expect to work for four hours straight, plus the two hours before lunch? Must I return after dinner? It’s time to give myself permission to frolic, or just take a walk. Five hours today, maybe I’ll make it six tomorrow.