This has been a seriously weird week for me.  For the first time in three years, I don’t have anything to write.

That’s not to say I don’t have work in progress; I do.  I’ve begun planning Book 7 of my series, and Book 6, “A Spy For A Spy” is with my editors.  My next blog compilation, “Definitely Inappropriate” is scheduled for mid-May.

But this week, there wasn’t any actual writing to be done for any of those projects.

I don’t know what to do with myself.  Seven days a week I’m up between six and six-thirty and at my desk by eight, cup of tea in hand.  I usually stay submerged until ten o’clock at night, with occasional breaks for meals and meetings and family/social responsibilities and workouts at the gym.

But this week, I’ve been dealing with my business email and bookkeeping, reading the news and a few blog posts, and then wandering aimlessly away from the computer by nine or ten AM because there’s nothing left to do.

I’ve read eight books in three days.  I’ve baked bread and cookies and made granola and three kinds of soup in addition to our usual meals.  I’ve listened to music and done some sewing and gone to the gym and gone for walks.  I’ve done jigsaw puzzles online and surfed YouTube for hours, digging out obscure Dr. Hook videos from the 70s.

I’ve planned a trip and organized the tools I’ll need to install a hardwood floor at my step-mom’s house in April.  I’ve worked on marketing campaigns for my books.  I’ve cut Hubby’s hair (yes, he asked me to – I’m not quite desperate enough to force him into something like that).  I’ve even *gasp* watched a couple of movies.

And I’ve left the house and actually interacted with other human beings, too.  I went to a car show and a blues jam and to the pub with friends.

Even after all that, I’m still wandering around like a lost soul.  I keep trailing back to the computer in case some important task has materialized while I was gone.

I guess this is what it’s like to be “normal”.  I’m doing my best to relax into it, but I have a sense of impending doom.  I feel as though I’ve forgotten to do something really, really important and soon disaster will strike because of my negligence.

It reminds me of one of my trips to the doctor many years ago.  After a battery of lung-function tests, the specialist smiled at me and said, “You act just like a normal person.”

I said, “Can I get that in writing?”

But on later reflection, I realized he hadn’t actually said I was normal.  He only said I fake it convincingly.

So I’m faking it for all I’m worth this week, but normalcy clearly doesn’t suit me.  I can hardly wait to go back to communing with the voices in my head for hours a day.

If I was a normal person, I might be worried about that…

Is anybody else living a “normal” life?  Tell me, what’s it like?

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Woohoo!  The cover for Book 6 is ready!  Check it out on my Books page.