I realized a couple of seconds ago that I am, in fact, burned out.
I’ve been denying it for about two weeks now, but when this weekend came and went, and I couldn’t find the physical or mental energy to write anything longer than a tweet, I had to face it.
Burnout comes on really slow. It usually shows a lot easier in something you’re not fond of. It had started showing at my job at least a month ago; I am still doing a great job, and my boss loves my work and my work ethic. But the symptoms were there: hitting the snooze button at least three times each morning; not being able to sleep because I didn’t want to face the next work day (like I’m doing right now); withdrawing from my work buddies to slave away alone in what I considered to be “peace and quiet.” I just didn’t think those same symptoms would start to apply to my writing.
I realized earlier tonight that I haven’t written anything in a week. For me, that’s absurd. That doesn’t compute. That doesn’t make a lick of sense. I’ve been reading pretty voraciously…but writing? *Insert crickets chirping*
I’m a bit mad at myself for allowing the burn out to get to this point. The sudden re-introduction of mindless TV watching should’ve been a huge sign. Instead of writing, I spent the weekend sleeping and watching Animal Planet (River Monsters in particular, for some odd reason).
With that in mind, I’m giving myself a small break from blogging. Trust me, if you’re at a point where learning about 42 different types of flesh-eating piranha is more appealing to you than writing, you probably need a break as well. My plan is to pick back up the first weekend in May, although I may emerge sooner if the creative energy returns quicker.
Wish I could take a similar break from work…