The other day I woke up to some serious brain fog. My mind matched the day outside: gloomy. Had Covid back in July so I don’t think that that was the cause. However, it was the second day in a row that I woke up and spent nearly the entire day in a bit of a clouded trance. I didn’t want to do anything because I didn’t think my mind would allow it to, especially as it pertained to writing.
In painting a small picture of part of my morning routine, during weekdays, after waking and starting my coffee, I go on a short ten-minute walk. Then, after arriving home, I fill one page of writing, typically a flash fiction-type story, some of which have been published on this newsletter. Some days the stories are pretty good, some are “meh,” and some are pretty awful. I’m thankful for all of them though.
On the brain-fog day, despite not feeling it, I continued with the routine. Not only was what I put down on the page awful, it might be the worst thing I’ve written in that particular notebook. After finishing, I was having a hard time being thankful for it. But then I started to think about the change from summer to fall and my own personal history with it.
I am not a day-to-day person. Someone asks me how my day is going, I either freeze up or give the boring “pretty good” response. Ask me about my week and I’ll give a better answer. Month? Even more expansive. Season? Let me tell you what I’ve been working on. But what does it have to do with my brain-foggy morning and subsequent awful drivel on paper?
The changing season tells me it’s time to alter my process. While I’m going to continue to get some stories out this autumn, the quantity probably won’t be as high as in the summer. Summer, for me, as well as for many others I’d assume, is a time for dreaming, creating. Fall is the time trudging, editing. I’ve got a notebook full of raw, unedited work. It’s time to harvest.