Literature.
She stopped writing for too long and now Bones forgets that she is an author. Work took over like never before, and she doesn't remember how she used to balance literature with crime solving.
That's just it. She glances up from the papers on her desk at which she had been staring intently and taking in not a single word. Her gaze falls on a framed photograph of her lab in the newspaper. Hodgins of all people had clipped the article and preserved it behind glass for her. It was one of their first solvings of an active murder investigation. She inspects all of their faces for youth and finds it in strange places. Hodgins's hair is longer – he cared less about his appearance. Angela's bangs reminded her of a different person who drank more and drew more and did more strangers in bathrooms, high on life. Booth was there. His hair was cropped closer and his belt buckle was ridiculous. It was just a speck in the grainy image but she remembered it well. And she also remembered Angela's elbow to her gut and the whisper under the breath, "honey, stop staring at his crotch." There were weak protests that fell on smiling ears. Cam isn't in the picture, it was that long ago. And Zack was.
And then there's Dr. Brennan in a bright blue coat, not quite smiling but enjoying the moment of recognition and camaraderie. Dr. Brennan in her faded blue coat rises from her desk chair, paces to the wall and looks more closely at the picture. It was taken not long after her second book came out. The third was still in the works. Or it would be if she were working on it. Currently, it was in the sits in a file on her computer, and Bones was afraid to look at the date last edited.
Ever since she started active crime solving, since she learned to hold a gun and since she learned to shoot it, the writing had fallen by the wayside. Everything took more time, everything was more urgent. And even in her moments of rest, she knew crimes were being committed. So how could she write?
It used to be that Brennan wrote about cold cases she'd solved with her kooky, joyful partners who were absolutely characters in real life in addition to on the page. But now she didn't know who would want to read the daily horror she dealt with. She didn't want to write it, because writing makes it real and real was too real for her escapism. Hell, she wished she hadn't lived it.
As Temperance turned around to go back to her desk, the thought crossed her mind that she wished she weren't living it, present tense. She wanted to go back to dig sites and ancient civilizations, debating Egyptian versus Sumerian. She wanted to go back to South America and look at the Aztec, the Maya, the Inca, and the museums that held their remains in which she was well cited. Staring into space, Bones could see herself back at her favorite Peruvian outdoor market buying a necklace for herself and debating whether Angela would want the red or the orange scarf.
The colors in her own imagination mesmerized her. She could smell roasting vegetables and fresh bread, feel woolen textiles, and hear the shouts of vendors around her arguing, bargaining, and finally agreeing on a price.
Brennan grabbed for a pen.