I’m not writing anything at the minute. The last piece I wrote was for my creative writing homework, and that was three weeks ago.
And I’m good with that right now. I have a spider diagram of what I want to work on next – even a title – but it’s not calling to me to write it.
I wouldn’t call this writer’s block as much as writer’s exhaustion. Muse has been working in the mines for four years, five books and a dozen short stories, and she’s on an extended vacation. I know if I sit down with the plan for Book Six, I’d probably be off to the races, but I don’t feel like it. I feel burned out, actually.
My beta-readers are tearing through (apart?) Book Five right now, and I’m content to sit back and relax until they’re done with it, and start the re-writes. No rush, no deadlines.
Partially, it’s because Book Five was the hardest to write. My wife was out of the country for three months this year, and I missed her terribly. The events of the start of the year are still bouncing around and it’s been an emotionally draining year all round for my little family. I think Book Five struggled and was maimed by what was going on in my life.
Momentum is a hard thing to gather in the indie world. There’s a constant push for Indies to get out there, to be doing something on a blog, Facebook and Twitter and Goodreads every day. To sing and shout and juggle, to be visible and doing something. There are a lot of writers out there, and we all have to do the same talent show to the same audience, and keep doing it.
It’s exhausting, but to quote Carrie Fisher, “There’s no point where you can say, ‘That’s it, I’m famous, I can take a day off now.’ ”
I love writing, and can’t imagine my life without writing something. But I’m not going to be starting The Next Big Thing until the year ends in a four.
I wouldn’t feel like I was giving everything to the book, and that would be a cheat to the people who read them, and a cheat for me to write it.