Time and Light Switches

I’ve discovered the source of my writers block and slump. I’ve reached and shot past the word count of my first novel and now the book I’m currently writing in the longest thing I’ve ever written. For the last two and half weeks I couldn’t quite figure why I was feeling so sluggish in my writing and it finally occurred to me what it was. Book two is now the longest thing I’ve ever written at over 65,000 words and climbing.   When I finished the first draft of book one it ended at just over 59,000 words and now sits a few thousand above than after two full rounds of edits. While book two is still very much so not done and the words count just keeps on climbing and climbing.  I remember when I finally finished draft one of book one and just how absolutely tired and exhausted I was. Now I’ve written more than that and still have a ways to go. So my fatigue all the sudden makes a heck of a lot more sense to me. So I think I’ve once again found some grace for myself and will ju...

Well, not much of anything new to report on today, for this week or two. I’ve ended up taking more breaks than I wanted or planned for. On account of the changing seasons, and not feeling above the weather, and life taking me on detours I’ve not gotten much written at all. Here and there I’m able to jot down a few hundred words but it’s been a slow going process, the momentum ticking down more and more every day.   I think I’ll blame it on the impending winter. Whenever the holidays begin approaching I start to lose my desire to be “productive.” I’d rather be with my family, rather be baking and partaking of fun and merriment. Sitting down to type away in my small corner of the world looses some of it’s appeal at this time of year. I can, and did, write my way through the summer months without a drop of FOMO; the slow and steady arrival of thanksgiving and Christmas however, well that makes FOMO stick to me like glue.  So between being varying degrees of under the weather ...

I am not as I once was. I took some time to read back some pieces, all dated before the day my grandfather died, and one thing appears clear to me; I am not as I once was. In some ways I think I’ve become a poorer writer but a better speaker. Words I’d never have dared speak before come tumbling out of my mouth uninhibited. While the language of my finger tips appears stunted, threaded with hesitation. Like the words I speak hold as much weight as the ones I write, and now the balance is broken. I’m not sure I like it.   My relationships are better for it, I get to the point much more quickly now. But I fear my thinking and therefore writing has taken a hit. Or maybe that’s just grief. I’m not sure. But what I do know is that more honesty has flown from my mouth than ever before and I can’t quite remember how I used to keep it all to myself. Maybe I wasn’t meant to. Maybe these things were always meant to be spoken. Maybe I just have less to write because I already said it. I’m n...

I go through fits of fervent inspirations, and spans of waning deserts. I’m in a place of having to write down what feels like every second thought. While it feels like an interruption it is also an invitation. An invitation to see what might be found outside my little fixed routine. That maybe once I finish this next project I won’t simply shrivel up from lack of creative notion and expression.   I’ve written down much, as of late, in my long lived note filled with half finished thoughts,  beginnings and endings. Both things to return to and things to remember for another time. Because that ‘such a time as this’ seems to come around often, has a retuning quality about it. Always braced for the next gust of ‘take me away from here.’ Because I live inside of ‘how long till I leave,’ leaves a dust about my shoulders it does.  So, as what feels to be a new form of normal, my inner poet tries everyday to be the one centre of stage. It’s a bit invasive, but I let it becaus...