where did we disappear to the silence that surrounds and then drowns us in the end

Today was the laziest of my days off thus far, which is saying quite a bit. I didn't get out of bed until eleven, shortly before I had a quick conversation with Katie - she'll be here on Monday! I had the rest of my leftovers from Cheesecake Factory for lunch, did some laundry, surfed the net, and then went to get a glycolic peel. As usual, there was a pretty agonizing ten-minute span involving extractions followed by acid, which always makes me wonder why I pay so much money to be subjected to unpleasant torture - but then the rest of it is relaxing, and I like the results, so I end up going back. After that, I went to the office (shut up, I don't want to hear it) and had dinner with Laura, before coming home and reading some articles from a writing magazine.

If I stick to my current plan, two weeks from today I will be staying in motel somewhere along Interstate 80. I will also be commencing my crazy writing schemes. This is all v. exciting, but also v. scary - while I have planned it enough to be comfortable that I can survive this for six months, I have no idea whether I'll be successful in my mission, whether I will be truly happy devoting myself to writing full-time, whether I could make a living off of it, whether I will produce anything worth publishing. As someone who usually takes calculated risks (and by that I mean things that may look like risks to other people, but that I've thought out so carefully that I've anticipated most obstacles and am prepared to deal with the consequences), the fact that I'm taking a risk in which I don't know the outcome is quite unsettling.

However, I think that one root cause of my dissatisfaction with my life is that I usually only do things which I have plotted out in advance, which strips life of the spontaneity required to allow for chance encounters and new experiences. I don't mean the random last-minute dinners, parties, and other social encounters that I actually do participate in - I mean the risks you have to take to let someone get close when you don't know them yet, or the willingness to flirt (and then follow through) with a stranger in a cafe, or the ability to be open and vulnerable instead of closed up in a shroud of sarcasm, building relationships based on mutual amusement while simultaneously holding others at arm's length.

The book is the reason why I took a sabbatical - but it's also true that I took a sabbatical because I need to force myself to take risks, to stray from the safe path, to let myself get caught up in serendipitous detours. Granted, running off to Iowa may not seem like the best way to let go - but if nothing else, it will help me to understand how comfortable I would be leading an unconventional, non-corporate life. My hope right now is that I will love spending my days writing, that I will be productive at it, and that I can produce books that I can sell - if those three things are true, then I'll likely spend some more time devoted to this, rather than coming back to work. But, if it turns out that I'm just not made for this kind of life, or that I'm not able to function with that level of risk, then I'll likely come back - my life here was no longer what I wanted it to be, but if I do come back I hope it's with enough self-awareness that I can change the things that have made me unhappy, even if I have to accept that I'm not meant to be a writer.

If nothing else, though, six months from now I'll likely be remarkably well-rested, and also not completely eager to move on to the next step, whether it's coming back to work or finding an apartment someplace where I can fully devote myself to my craft. That's a worry for another time, though; I'm going to pursue my strategy of 'sleep whenever I feel like it' and go to bed.