As I go through Europe with my sisters (not trying to brag, just setting the scene), I keep thinking about all the writing I'm *not* doing. I'm not a resolutions-type person, but I do like being productive, and going two weeks without editing or drafting a novel feels weird.
But, since I don't have anything big to work on, I have time to think about other things. There's just something about Europe; I understand why so many writers and artists found/find themselves stuck here. Not stuck as in stranded, but stuck as in they just couldn't/can't bring themselves to leave.
I'm writing this while on a train going from northern Italy to Geneva, and the temperature outside is hovering near the 30s Fahrenheit. Everywhere I look, there is fog. In the sky, on the ground, in between buildings. It softens the spaces between things and makes the sky look both infinite and closer than ever.
In Venice, the fog was so thick on New Year's Eve it felt like we were in the only city in the world.
I think every city has this kind of magical, foggy power. It can be hard to see when you've lived in that place for too long, but it's remarkably easy to see while in all these new places. Thinking about the effect of the scenery on my creative brain makes me excited to get home and write, yet reluctant to return to "real" life. Yet, I don't have to let that disappoint me or make me unhappy--I have a lot of writing to do.