It’s been two whole weeks since I last went fishing.
My brain has ground to a standstill. Any leftover reserves of creative juices I had are now bone dry.
As I read and copy edit stories, the letters on the page start to turn into bubble trails or seams where I need to land my fly.
My conundrum reminds me of an episode of Seinfeld. When George and Elaine were both celibate for an extended period of time, George becomes a genius while Elaine devolves into a simpleton.
In this case (and I am surely not alone), my vice is fishing and I fear my withdrawal symptoms are eerily similar to Elaine’s. I apologize in advance if you wave to me on the street and I respond by simply staring off into space.
For the sake of my family, coworkers and my own wellbeing, I think I need to suck it up and drop my line in the water – soon.
People are also reading…
I promise to drag myself out of bed this Sunday at 5 a.m. and be on the river by 6:30 a.m.
At this point, not only is it the