So I've had writers block. BAAADLY.
Usually I'm dedicatedly (which is a nice way of putting obsessively) goal motivated, and I potter along with my books... beginning, middle, end and then delete most of it and rewrite (which I always claim to enjoy, god knows why), then delete most of that and rewrite, then delete... well you get the picture.
But, since the start of the year I've been struggling. The book has come along, but excruciatingly slowly, and even last week I was feeling sick whenever I opened the file to force myself to have a crack at the next scene. Physically sick.
Then I went away, and had a break. I stepped outside my life for a few days. I resolved to do things differently (most of which have fallen at the first hurdle). I thought about myself, and thought a lot about the blog and how lately I'm struggling to write personal stuff - yes, yes, I know you don't believe me. But actually, I'm pretty introverted - though mostly my urge to have a voice and tell the world and make people laugh overcomes that introversion - but for some reason its been taking more effort of late. I've been feeling the need to shut the door on the world.
Don't worry. This isn't one of those, having-a-break blog posts. Someone asked me the other day why I write. Embarrassingly (for a writer) I didn't have a quick answer and said urrr, and looked vague. But hubs and I have since come to the conclusion that I write because I think too much and if I didn't write some of it down my head would explode. Excellent reason methinks.
I do think a lot. And if I'm not writing books then I'm writing blog posts or long loooong emails to all and sundry. Just because I was blocked writing fiction doesn't mean I haven't stopped writing all day every day. And just because I'm feeling uncertain about putting myself out there on this blog right now, doesn't mean I'm going to stop it either. Yes, I make no sense. Just ask my husband about it.
Anyway. Caitlyn Nicholas unblocked...
I was planning on doing a post on the care and feeding of celery today (with photos), am still undecided if it would've been more interesting than this, or less. (That's a rhetorical statement btw).
So I'm in the front garden this morning, weeding, and suddenly, from nowhere I feel like I just have to sit down and write. And so I did. All afternoon. No pain, no angst, no need for the program that stops me surfing the net. Just focussed writing. No internal editor telling me that I can't, shan't or won't. Words going down onto the page which sometimes even surprised me - I had no idea that the sex addicted Max was whoring himself out to all the local grannies OR that the heroine's drunken father was once a legendary spy himself.
The ideas just landed there all by themselves.
Gah. Hello muse. Its been a while.
Anyway, ye gods, school tomorrow and I'm not even sure if I've got the lunchboxes out of their bags from last term. Time to unglue myself from the lappie and hope that its will all come together tomorrow as well.