In case you haven’t noticed, I haven’t posted in a while. And by “a while” I mean like half a year. I haven’t written much either. A few haiku poems, some prodding at my journal, but that’s about it. I haven’t worked on novels at all, not even an outline or proof reading a novel.
I have excuses of course. I sold a house. If you’ve ever sold a house, you already know it’s a nightmare. And then I moved three times, including moving in with my parent for two months. If you’ve ever had to move back in with your parents (even temporarily), you know it’s a nightmare. And then I bought a bigger house. If you’ve ever bought a house, then you know it’s a nightmare.
So, I had a lot going on. So much that I had absolutely no time to write at all? Um. . . weeellll . . . .
If I’m being honest with myself, if I had really wanted to, I could have written a little. The thing is, I just wasn’t feeling it. Of course, I’m usually a huge supporter of the “Just do it!” style of writing. The whole “It doesn’t matter if you don’t feel inspired, write anyway!” way of writing usually works for me. But this time, it just wasn’t enough. I couldn’t think of any good stories to write. And I could have worked on one of my outlines, flesh out one of my half written novels or even proofread, but every time I looked at my writing it just looked so amateur-ish. The stories seemed broken and awkward. The main characters felt one dimensional. Every time I read something I’d written, I’d just keep picking it apart.
For a while, I honestly thought I would walk away and stop writing all together.
Yeah, that didn’t last long.
It seemed like the moment I finally decided to never ever write again, was right when new stories started flooding back in. I think it started when a writer friend, trying to coax be back into the writing world, suggested that I try writing some children’s picture books. “They’re fun to write and super easy. And you get to work with an illustrator who will help you along.” she said. So I stared writing a few quick outlines for picture books, just so she would stop nagging me. And the next thing I knew the stories I’m thinking up get longer and longer and more and more complex. After a while I look at the outline I’m working on and I realize that it’s an outline for a novel, and it’s a pretty good out line at that. Now I’m thinking of all sorts of ideas for novels.
The writing bug, there really isn’t a cure, only treatments.