Nancy Bartholomew

On Friday I'm leaving to spend 9 whole days at the cabin.  This probably means God will strike me dead- or worse.

How has it come to this?  How have I arrived at the point where taking time to do the thing I love (and hate), the thing I do to earn a living (which explains my abject poverty) is now such a guilty pleasure I'm sure I'll rot in Hell for it?

Worse- I feel guilty when I'm not writing and now, apparently, guilty when I do.

Great.  

I have a feeling Joshilyn Jackson would "get" this.  I've just finished her book, "Between, Georgia," and loved it so much, I immediately downloaded "gods in Alabama."  Somehow I happened upon her blog and began reading about some of her own writer's angst.

We must be distant kin. 

She's really a very wonderful writer and funny as all get-out...but serious, too.

Okay, lest you think I'm a fanatic, it's back to the daily grind.  I've got packing to do.

And praying.