I hate to admit it, but I’m in the middle of a terrible writing drought. Yesterday was the first day in ages that I actually wrote something. No, let me backtrack: I’ve been working on a collaborative project, which is wonderful and a ton of fun, so yesterday was the first day in ages that I actually wrote something solo. I’ve been sitting around bitching and moaning to myself about how lazy I’ve been, but when I look at the record that’s not entirely true.
I’ve just been disappointing myself with my own personal efforts.
At the end of March we started a remodel project. It was hard to write with all the noise and constant interruptions, so I put writing on the back burner. The project finished a week ago, so it was time to move furniture. Of course I messed up my back lifting heavy stuff (because I’d only been sitting around babysitting my house for six weeks and was horribly out of shape), so it’s been another week and a bit of recovering from that unfortunate incident.
Look: there are always reasons not to write. I can give you a million of them. Yesterday I actually got about a thousand words done, and believe me, that felt like a huge accomplishment. Today I’m not so motivated, but at least I caught up on some much-needed sleep and I’ve been processing bits and pieces of my story, so even though I don’t have words down on the page yet (and the day is still young), I’ve been working on that story. Unfortunately, I’ve only been working on it in my head, not on paper, so I’m not sure how much that counts.
This weekend I have a little bit of travel coming up. I have a writing deadline coming up. If I can finish this story in ten days, I’ll make the deadline. I know I can churn out words, but will they be good ones?
Creativity, where did you go? I feel like the world’s biggest fraud calling myself a writer lately.