I haven't written in days. In fact I can't remember the last time I wrote. I've edited, which counts, sort of, but I haven't created anything new in a longer time than I am comfortable with.
There is more than one circumstance playing into my writer's block. One, time, which is always an issue for the workaholic me. Two, plot issues, Billy and Renie need issues, and that is when the dreaming becomes hard. Three, focus is on the book that will release October 15. Four, edits to Linger, long overdue, which I simply need to do. Five, plot resolution for books Hasten and Wait, and that in and of itself is huge, that I've actually resolved them and now just need to write and edit accordingly.
What it means is that by the middle to end of 2014, I should have five books released. And that is daunting. Daunting times ten thousand.
The final reason I haven't written is that my overall routine has been off-kilter. We have visiting family and we've travelled. Tomorrow starts a new routine, one which means I will be up and out of the house by 4:45am three mornings a week to take Frank to swim practice. I'll be back home five minutes later, but my days will begin that early because I will not go back to sleep.
I used to be at my most creative level first thing in the morning. Lately I've been settling in to write last thing at night. I don't think it matters really when I write, as long as I do. Which means I cannot allow myself to use excuses for not being able to. I don't write on a laptop. Why not? I don't write unless it is at my desk, looking out over the beauty of Colorado. Why not? I don't write unless I have large blocks during which I know no one will interrupt me. Why not? I could go on and on with my internal struggle about why I can't, when my own logic tells me I can.
I need to write. It isn't a matter of wanting, it's a need. When I don't do it, I feel as though something significant is not right in my life. Today I will write. Dammit.
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