The last time I took a few months off I came back to writing refreshed. I wrote over 50,000 words and finished The Wild Hunt. This time around though, I'm afraid that that flash of inspiration is not here. Things are different, different house, car, grandma's gone. Life is always changing, does that mean as a writer I do as well?
I'm not sure what the answers are for me. I'm jumping in, but its scary, I've got to make this book better, more, and I want to do it in a fraction of the time. I think I should probably remove the restraints of deadlines and time tables, but it doesn't even ease the pressure a tiny bit. This has to be perfect it has to work.
Queue the insane pressure....
Now what? I'll open my notebooks and scribble down ideas, piece it together on paper and in my head and hope the block goes away, hope that inspiration strikes and I find my flow again. Words like water, my fingers the rocks it moves upon. Write damn it, all I need to do is write.
If only it were that easy.
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