When I wasn’t a published writer, I would hear published writer bemoan their books, their writing. They’d say things like, “This scene isn’t working. I’m so frustrated, what made me think I could write?”
And I’d listen sympathetically, but part of me was like, “Are you kidding?! You’re published. Of course you can write.”
How little I understood the nature of writing and the heart of a writer.
I’m published now. Twice in one week, as a matter of fact. For the story of Ethan’s Chase publication story, go to Scribes.
So you would think as someone who has two stories coming out, I would be confident, ready to take on the world, and writing up a storm.
Truth is, I’m in my third week of non-writing. Oh, I’ve got a few sentences here, a paragraph there. And I have been busy with the administration side of writing (signing contracts, updating websites, etc). But that doesn’t void the fact that I haven’t written.
I want to, Lord, I want to. But as soon as I sit at the computer and look at my pages, I hate them. HATE. LOATHE.
And you’d think that the fact I went through this very same cycle with all my previous work would somehow inoculate me against the despair I feel. It doesn’t. I’m despairing.
And more than that, I feel like an idiot. It’s all well and good to feel wretched when I’m lost, but I’m not lost. I know this path–hell, I’m the one who freakin‘ cut the trail. So why the sense of angst?
The worst part is that the longer I take to get back to my writing, the harder it is.
Thank God for friends and family. I’ve been deadlined for tomorrow. I have to have a chapter ready and edited from my newest romance or else. And trust me, with this group, the “or else” can be vicious.
If I don’t get on with the writing, they’ll take my chocolate.