For a moment, I feared my brain had broken good and proper. At least that’s how it’s felt for much of the last 48 hours. Perhaps a metaphorical gear had come loose, causing it to stall or malfunction. Since Monday night, any attempt to write, create, or even think through an idea was proving impossible. My mission was to solve the plot hole I’d mentioned in my previous entry, figuring out a way to make it work. As it turns out, my brain had other plans. It conjured nothing, showing me only a lightless void perched at its core.

This problem wasn’t isolated to a single moment or hour. It seemed to become a more permanent fixture over a number of days. And it wasn’t just my fiction either. Podcast prep and essay work also suffered a similar fate. Any attempt to take notes, workshop ideas, or structure my drafts left my mind completely blank. My energy tanks had hit zero. I could barely do anything, let alone think.

In many ways, it was always a matter of “when,” not “if” when it came to this particular outcome. I’ve been burning the candle at both ends for far too long now, and the signs of burnout had started to show in recent months, hints of its presence bleeding into my latest batch of journal entries. My novel’s output had diminished, my moments of doubt had become far more frequent than usual, and my creativity had reached a consistent all-time low. I’d used up all my fuel, yet tried to continue driving nonetheless.

Which is why today, I tried something a little different, I took a break.

This wasn’t planned, I will admit. In fact, today was originally meant to be quite the opposite. I’d booked half a day to attend to some private matters. The plan was to clock out, drive  to my appointment , then head home for a podcast prep session with my co-hosts. In a twist of fate, both the appointment and the prep session were cancelled. So there I was, with only half a day at work behind me and a whole afternoon to burn.

My initial instinct was to cancel the half-day. May as well save it, I thought. I have multiple podcast episodes to edit in October; so why not use the time then. That way I don’t have to stay up until stupid o’clock when the time comes to publish those shows. But then I reconsidered. The day before, I was a zombie possessing a skull void of ideas. Perhaps this unexpected free time had arrived at the perfect moment. That half-day could be used to recharge, good and proper. Then maybe, just maybe, I could tackle my work with an energised mind.

I shan’t lie, it wasn’t a comfortable decision. Coming home and sitting on my sofa was tough for someone who has become condition to be productive during their time off. I even relapsed for an hour or so. I didn’t succumb to writing during this relapse, but I did spontaneously start mowing the lawn. I quickly nipped that in the bud, however, and forced myself back into the living room for an afternoon of dedicated relaxation. I popped on a movie, caught up on a few TV shows, then finally started playing The Last of Us Part II, months after adding it to my to-do list.

At first I felt icky, as though I was wasting my life away doing something meaningless. It didn’t feel productive. It felt as though I was squandering time, not investing in my future.

But the thing is, I was investing in my future. If I don’t rest, I won’t be able to muster the energy to fix my novel’s troubling plot hole. If I just write and write and write, I’ll reach a point where I’m merely vomiting words onto a page, devoid of any substantial meaning. By refusing to park my brain and do things for the sake of enjoying them, I run the risk of doing the very thing I’m trying to avoid. I run the risk of inefficiency. 

Am I really going to sell a novel produced by a frazzled mind? Am I going to wow people with essays that have no energy or passion behind them? Will I be able to help grow my podcast if all I’m doing is spewing hot air during my segments? If I work without rest, surely I’ll just end up collapsing onto a mountain of my own half-baked notions.

This is no secret. I need to take time to watch a movie, play a game, or read a book. People have been telling me this for months. Heck, I’ve even told myself this on numerous occasions. My discomfort with actually listening to this advice stems from an insecure mind. I’m 35 now, and if I’m being honest, I’m ashamed that I spent a great deal of my 20s not being as creative as I’d intended. Back during my teenage years, I had envisioned my adulthood consisting of nonstop writing; churning out a plethora of well-crafted screenplays and making money from the thing I loved so dearly.

Except that wasn’t the case. Much of my 20s was taken up by paying bills, saving for a mortgage, and drinking far too alcohol during my spare time. Now that I’m in my 30s, half a decade into sobriety, paying off the very mortgage I strived for, and in my most reflective state of mind, I’m fighting to make up for lost time. This means most of my free time consists of writing, topped off with my podcasting endeavours. It makes for a hectic schedule, and while this drive is good in many respects, in others, it’s perhaps quite bad.

Which is why I need to get better at balancing productivity with downtime. I need to play more games, listen to more music, read more books, and spend more time with friends. These are all things I’ve been neglecting in my pursuit of getting up to speed. I want to tell stories and put my mark on this world before it’s too late. All of this is fine, but if I push myself too far, too quickly, I won’t succeed. I’ll just find myself in a worse position than I was before.

I absolutely must keep writing. All the same, I need to learn to switch off from time to time. Life isn’t just about making a name for yourself. Sometimes, it’s about sipping tea, losing yourself in someone else’s fictional worlds, and just enjoying the creature comforts that come with being a human.