By J.C. Lynne
If you read my posts or follow me, you know ninety-eight percent of the time I’m joyful in my writing pursuit. I’m fortunate to be surrounded and supported by people, not the least of which is the Beard, who believe in my words.
Seriously, any dissatisfaction seems like a big ol’ whine fest.
Welcome to the Lalapalooza of Morose. I blame it on finishing my second novel. I’ve arrived at a strange limbo transit station where my brain is a little fried.
A two week visit from the Plague didn’t help and now I’m experiencing issues with my healing ankle. I’m feeling unproductive, relatively useless, and generally meh.
This isn’t my norm and I don’t expect it to last long but damn it, I’m irritating me! The weather is brightening up. I’m sending two manuscripts to the editor today. I actually vacuumed the house yesterday. So what is my frickin’ problem?
I can’t tell you. I just know I almost pulled a Stephen King and burned the manuscripts the other day. Thank goodness the Beard intervened.
I’m the person who reminds people it takes years of work. There is no such thing as an overnight success story. Every time I hear the phrase a little digging reveals how long the successful person has worked their ass off to be a hit.
Two weeks of the flu led to binging on Netflix and Amazon Instant. Go back through some of those old shows and it’s a cavalcade of young faces that are, today, huge celebrities. We’re talking ten or fifteen years of bit parts and one-liners.
I have completed two novels, one published and one in the chute. That is no mean feat, but my brain is slogging through the ankle-deep muck.
Writing is work. Anyone who says differently isn’t a writer. It’s pushing through those two hundred word days, rejoicing in the three thousand word days, and resigning yourself to the hours of editing and shaping that fall in between. I love it. Really, every butt-dragging word.
The big question is how to shake me out of this mood and jump into a new story. I’m looking at eleven projects on which I can work.
It’s a sad day in this writer’s life when laundry is the most appealing option.