It turns out I’m doing a really bad job of writing lately. I always seem to forget my writing days. Maybe I have a lot more to keep my mind on than usual; maybe work is calling me away too often. Maybe I’m just tired. But my writing (both blogging and story-wise) are not happening.
Maybe it’s not the season to write. I hope that’s not the case, because I’m supposed to write a Christmas romance in November. I’m already going to be a couple days behind because of a conference I’m going to.
Here’s hoping the universe showers me with the gift of writing.
Sometimes I get into those soul-searching sessions when I wonder if I’m doing the right thing with my time, whether there’s a better thing to do with my time, and what that better thing to do would be.
I think of this a lot when it comes to writing. I’m not tired of writing, but I feel like I’m slowing down a bit. It doesn’t help that I have two books I’m writing at once, one more than the other. I’m having a problem with only being able to write smoothly at Starbucks and not at home. I’m not sure what the focus problem is, but I think the low-level distraction of a coffeehouse helps me write.
I’m also dealing with the scourge of writing — the nagging little voice that tells me all I write is crap. It’s quite persistent. It’s killing my joy and distracting me.
On the other hand, writing is my favorite flow activity. It occupies my mind better than few other things. I can lose time while writing; it’s almost hypnotic. My other flow activity is moulage, but I really don’t get too many opportunities to do that. And I don’t know if there’s anything to pass my time that I enjoy as much.
I want to hang on to writing; I want to continue being a writer. I want to sell my work and have others read it. I’m going to have to find ways of overcoming the problems.
Words Like Me 