You arrived at the party two hours late, greeted your hostess and tried to minimize the stink-eye by passing over a ten dollar bottle of plonk that you picked up at losers-r-us just before it closed. Wandering nonchalantly over to the buffet table you curse your impulsive decision to skip dinner. All that’s left are three pieces of cheese with strange blue mould running through them, a few limp Ritz crackers, and enough broccoli to regulate the colon of King Kong.
Expectations shattered, enjoyment gone, you spend the rest of the night with a small group of fellow sufferers discussing something that you choose to forget before the conversation even ends. Giving up, you head home, grab a PBJ and swear that you’ll say no next time.
Odd words for a blog about writing? Maybe. But this is what it feels like in my writing life right now. The excitement is gone, the words are dried up and mouldy, and the company in my head sounds more like a political convention than a fantasy novel.
The first thing I ever learned about writing was ‘you have to write daily to be an author.’ I can’t do that. I can’t. The words are gone, and I don’t know how to get them back.
My first book, Exile, was born in a rush of passion. Words and images appeared faster than my fingers could type to get them on the page. Guardian was definitely still a passion story though it was built more slowly. There was a question that I was consumed with and the story came from that exploration. Lifebinder isn’t working. I’ve got the start of a dozen scenes and a million ideas, but nothing is coherent and I’m sulking.
Is it worth fighting through the wall and finding the words again? Have all the changes that my life has been through in the last two years altered my voice forever? Or is the Skyroad still in there somewhere, just waiting for a quiet night for the drums to beat again.
I don’t know.