Disrupted.

A slow day today.

My calendar is empty except for one entry: apply to a writing residency I want to attend. I’m not sure I have the energy for that much work.

I feel restless. I’ve been cooped up inside for too many days, spending far too many hours at my dining room table, bent over my computer, meeting deadlines. When that happens, creativity doesn’t deepen—it stiffens. I need a fresh environment.

A park? Maybe a walk on the Beltline, Atlanta’s trail that girds the city.

I could drive north—two hours away—and check myself into the tiny mountain cabin where I sometimes escape. Or head south to Serenbe, that little utopian enclave just beyond the airport. Places where I can walk, be safe, be invisible if I choose. Restaurants where eating alone feels natural. An old leather chair in a farmhouse library where I can order a cocktail and simply sit. Be sociable. Or not.

My mind flips to Atlanta’s graffiti installations—Living Walls. I love murals, but I haven’t taken a walking tour in several years. Maybe I’ll go hunt for them. Maybe. Or maybe not. Motivation feels thin.

I force myself up from the computer and pull on my tennis shoes. “Jump on MARTA and ride until you feel like getting off.” I’ve done that before. Today, it doesn’t move me.

The DeKalb Farmers Market. My happy place. That immense warehouse—the Disney World of farmers markets. I love choosing exotic vegetables or unfamiliar fish with the best intentions. Once home, the spell fades. Cooking for one is hard.

“You need to work on your manuscript,” the taskmaster pipes up. I know. I want to move it forward desperately, but I’m stuck on an important scene. Until it clarifies, pushing harder would only exhaust me.

I recently told a friend how often I feel stuck.

“You really seem to have a lot of energy around real estate,” she said, out of nowhere.

I laughed. I’m the only person I know who enjoys living in a construction site.
“Why don’t you get your real estate license? Flip a house?” she pressed.

Funny how right she was. “My dream has always been to renovate an old warehouse,” I admitted. Then I pulled back—I’m too old, too risky. But the truth lingered: I know contractors. I know permits. I know the process.

“Get out of this house,” my monkey brain insisted. “Just get in the car and go.”

Driving through the center of Atlanta, I passed the old Olympic site where Muhammad Ali lit the torch in 1996. Thirty years ago. It felt like yesterday.

I exited near the Capitol and the Justice Building. Memories flooded in—long days lobbying for bicycle helmet laws and drug abuse legislation, endless hours in City Hall waiting on permits, Monday nights at school board meetings fighting for public education. The memories came fast and left me a bit dizzy.

I found myself south of downtown in Summerhill, a neighborhood I’d been reading about. A new Publix anchoring a shopping center—the sure sign of gentrification. Brick storefronts. Flower boxes. Baby maples lining the sidewalks with deliberate precision.

A coffee shop, the perfect place to land.

Little Tart. Rows of beautiful pastries. I chose a corn quiche and a large latte. “Is dairy milk okay?” she asked. Inside: old brick, peeling plaster, exposed pipes. Sunflower murals in orange and green. Casual, intentional. It reminded me of my old West Village haunts—the same buzz, the same hum of possibility.

With my recent hearing loss, I couldn’t catch the words, only the energy. Georgia State t-shirts. A Pride flag. An Everman graffiti tag I recognized. Young, vibrant, mixed. A man who looked like a professor. Another like an attorney. This neighborhood felt prosperous, safe, and just edgy enough.

I should sell my house and move down here, the thought arrived, uninvited and clear.

The woman beside me stayed tethered to her earbuds, curls escaping her bun. She glanced my way a few times, maybe wondering if I was listening. I wasn’t. Finally, I caught one sentence: “Thank you. I enjoyed working with you.” She wiped her table and left.

The noise softened as the crowd thinned. Nearly eleven. Time to return to work.

The morning had done its job.

Sometimes the most productive thing creative people can do isn’t to push harder—but to disrupt themselves.

I need to do that more often.

Walking through the Summerville neighborhood of Atlanta.