I've been home for about two weeks now. It's weird that I finally think of Statesboro as "home" in a way.
My goal for tomorrow is to get my 1988 Nissan Pulsar legal to drive again. I haven't driven a car in half a year.
All I did today was hang out with Erica's dog, Bear, who is half bloodhound, half black lab.
I wrote a little but I feel like all the creativity in my brain has melted away since I last crossed the ocean. I'm not sure what it is about the Western Hemisphere that makes it harder for me; maybe it's the water. Yeah, that's it. I'll blame it on the fluoride.
But the real truth is that I'm just really good at making excuses for myself. I can come up with an excuse a lot faster than I can come up with an idea for my novel.
I have to get out of this house. And go somewhere that isn't a store or restaurant.
I am dreaming of having car insurance, and the fact that it isn't so hot that my black un-air conditioned car will feel like a death trap, and the way it will feel to drive without being sticky. The way it will feel to walk into the library and find a quiet corner and write. It's the best home place that I've ever found.
I have to find my jump drive, get off my ass, and get writing.