I feel terrible. I'm in this awful funk, not quite depressed but definitely bordering on melancholy. I don't want to go anywhere, don't want to do anything, don't want to see anyone (nevermind the fact that I'm throwing a mini-party tonight, don't ask why) all for no particular reason.
The one thing I can pinpoint is that I've started working on my novel again. I actually care about what I'm writing.
And I think it's sucking out my soul.
Apparently the cost of writing is any sort of normal human interaction.
Will I stop writing to save my ability to interact with other human beings?
Of course not.
Recluse status here I come!