I came back from Patagonia full of mountains and glaciers and giggly giddy things, and-
-went back to work, where I still could not do my job, and was still stuck doing the scanning, which was still demeaning and still humiliating and still made me feel like a useless shit tube and every time I typed at work I could feel the keys I could have been pressing on my novel disappearing and I resented it, and every time I worked on my novels I could feel the keys I should have been pressing in my contracted paying job and I resented it, and I couldn't move, and couldn't breathe, and couldn't see a way out.
Which is a little melodramatic. There's always a way out, but it may take some time to deal with the choking feeling of being trapped before you can do anything about it.
On Monday I start a temporary position in another department, and there is no data entry!
No! Data! Entry!
I think guilt kept me from truly ravishing my novel, guilt and fear, and now these things have been taken from me the only thing to stop me ravishing my novel is the fine art of procrastination.
My hands! My hands! They will get better!
ETA: I feel joyous and jolly, just as though there were a plump toucan in my head flapping my worries away.