I am not inspired

So, I’m done editing Whose Hearts are Mountains, and I’m still at Mozingo on my writing retreat. But I don’t feel like writing. What am I to do?

Here’s my problem — I don’t have any inspiration for a new book. I haven’t since I finished Whose Hearts are Mountains (writing, not editing). This is part of the reason I’ve been editing the back catalog for eventual developmental edits. 

I have an outline for another novel, but my brain feels like a brick right now. I wrote a sentence, a first sentence, and it dropped like lead, inert and boring.  I don’t feel that energy of attraction to anything I’ve writing. 

I think a good amount of this is how hard I’ve been trying to get an agent and how utterly fruitless my efforts have been. I’m discouraged, and it’s hard getting motivated to write when there’s a backlog of unread novels.

Wish me inspiration. Wish me luck. Wish me good spirits. Wish me love.

Nocturne

The FEMA app on my phone announces that the three-day heat advisory has expired. The air outside hangs heavily.  I feel its weight in my chest, as if it has settled in my soul.

Too much time to myself, too much time to think. Too many heavy questions — why does my childhood self walk through my dreams? What does she search for?

I wrote this song twenty years ago. Why does it repeat over and over?
To dance naked in this pool of light
is all the moment requires of me —
eyes closed, as if I were alone
but I know you are there, almost —
almost close enough to feel,
almost close enough to touch;
my hand reaches out to touch your face
and touches air — you are not close enough …

Why do the fleeting moments when we know we’re loved fade and leave us doubting again?
Why have we all been wounded?

When the cold front moves in tonight, it may rain or even hail. Perhaps that will clear the air.