I can make the time. I’ve done it before. Gone to bed late, skipped the gym, ate dinner above my computer, forced myself to tap the keyboard even when there was nothing to say. Is it writer’s block or just a lack of desire to write? Maybe those two are the same.
During the month of November, I wrote seventy-thousand words for a new book. I have eight and a half chapters to go. It’s outlined, the climax is happening, it should be an interesting point in the story yet I don’t want to write it. I want to listen to a podcast about Dirty John instead. I’d rather read The Divergent series for the first time. Or continue bing watching The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. This is winter. Give me a cookie and a warm blanket.
Outside is several shades of brown swirled together with gray. The ground is a muddy soupy sponge. I lack inspiration.
Is this where I tell you how I’ve broken the spell of doom? Nope. Sorry, no lessons here other than this; I know it will pass. I seem to remember being in a slump this time last year. My hope is to slowly grease the ol’ gears and start chugging along again. Until then…