I had to move my desk so I could start writing again. It seemed physically impossible to extract words from the brain and fingers with the desk facing west, in the same way it seems impossible to start a new diet on any day besides Monday. And I would know. I’ve seen many “new diet Mondays,” dozens perhaps, missing only the ones that were hiding behind pizzas and giant bowls of pasta.

Besides the obvious geographical challenges of taking up blogging again, I find there are more daunting roadblocks, as well. Like the pesky question, “Why do it at all?” and it’s constant companion, “Who are you writing for, anyway?” To both, I can only answer, “I’m not quite sure, but I am equally unsure that I have a choice.”

I have written in the past. I have also quit writing. And each time I have stepped away, I have rolled around in the vast sense of relief that accompanied knowing there would be one less thing I’d need to do each day.

It doesn’t seem to last, though, this comfort of quitting. Over time, it starts to feel pinchy and wrong, like work pants I suspect are too small when I put them on at 6 a.m., and that by noon, literally seemed to be trying to cut me in half.

Not writing doesn’t fit. And so here I am. In worn-out yoga pants, and in the middle of a blog post… both which seem just about the right size.