I wandered around,sighing, made the odd meal, flicked the occasional duster, picked up toys scattered by visiting grandchild, pretended to tidy up. I moved piles of paper from one end of the dining table to the other.
We were invited out to tea and dinner.
It was Jewish New Year and the family came over for lunch. Said grandchild was too young for honey with apples and so enthusiastically attacked a dollop of Nutella. Note to self - Nutella will now be family tradition each New Year.
But I was still sighing.
It was the better half who wearily pointed out the problem. "You're always like this, every single time, only you never remember"
"What?" I sighed in a querying, querulous tone.
"When you finish writing your latest book."
"Oh?" still vague.
"Yes!" Slightly raised tone. "You always get that ,,,I don't know...empty, post book blues."
Is he going to break into song, I wonder and sit on a crate as he slaps it in time?
But the penny drops. I finished my latest book last week and sent it off to my agent and now it feels as though my hands are empty, My diary's blank. I haven't any days noted in capital letters WRITE so that I don't make any coffee or lunch dates.
Well, of course, there are lovely grandparent duties, shopping, cleaning, visiting friends and family, going to art exhibitions...
and of course reading all the books I couldn't allow myself in the last crazy mad-dash weeks when I had to finish the manuscript...I just had to ... I couldn't let it meander any longer through my life...
But it strangely still feels like there is nothing to do.
Right now its a case of coming to terms with PBB and allowing my brain time to rest and recoup before I start something else.
But of course you can't switch off the imagination. The ideas keep coming and coming and...
How do you cope with PBB?