It’s been a hard year, writing-wise.
A book I love isn’t being loved back by anyone in publishing at the moment. This book took more of my time and of my soul to finish than I’d like to admit, but in the publishing world, that’s never a guarantee of success.
Another book that I’m revising has gotten ideas from witnessing the first book’s failure. This second book stomps its feet and sticks out its tongue as if it’s a sullen child. “I won’t! I won’t do what you say!” it tells me every time I try to prod it into shape. “Why should I?”
Add to the pile the dark clouds and political uncertainty looming over my country, and it’s very hard to rustle up my writing mojo. But if writing is optional, if no one is waiting for a story, does that story exist? And even if it does, is it worth telling?
I don’t know the answer to that at the moment, despite the fiercely insistent voice inside my head that demands I take the question back, that says that story is all that really matters, no matter what form it takes. This blog post is story. The narrative my children share when I pick them up in the car is story. The evening news, the morning headlines, the history books being written — all story.
What I do know is that my brain is tired. It does not want to make the story, or fix the story, or somedays even be a part of the story. It wants rest and cuddles and time in bed and hot tea. On weekends and holidays it wants champagne and maybe a chance to go ice skating before anyone notices it has snuck out of the house. It does not want to write. [Read more…]