The Lemming

I’m lost in second draft land. Hence my lamentable absence from the blogosphere.
What happened to Time? Why am I always running like a lemming towards the cliff? I always pictured myself as a ‘lie on the hillside and stare at the clouds’ kind of fellow. These days, I barely look up.
Is this a common writer’s malady? (Or should that be a ‘writer’s common malady’?) I told my wife once, in a drunken moment, that I would go out with a question, not an answer. I think its probably true. But it doesn’t promise much time for lying back and staring.
Is there a place you reach (in time and space) when you can just sit back and go, ‘Ah!’?
Back to the cliff!
(By the way, I've just realised I have a thing for rodents. Two of my postings deal with them)