I’ve been so writer-lazy this last week.
I haven’t written on any of the stories currently on percolate in my head. I haven’t sat down and pondered what the best way to extricate and/or implicate my heroes and villains. No character sketches, no gazing at maps, thinking. No outlines of plot. My blog has suffered, too. I haven’t really written for it. Nor have I read and commented on the other blogs that I follow.
On the one hand, I am saddened by this. I literally have scads of time – and I am puttering around my house, doing laundry and scrubbing toilets.
What’s WRONG with me?
Well, nothing. I have spent the last few weeks writing pretty intensely for school. My brain is tired. I am tired. I just don’t want to sit at my desk and write. Writing is a lot of work and I have other things to do, right now. Even if those priorities are things that I would normally avoid like a horde of mutated zombie pigs.
And you know what?
That is OK.
I think that I am coming to find out – gee whiz, only taken me 30 years or so – that my creativity seems to run best when I don’t fuck with it.
Just a little bit ago, this break in the words would have freaked me out. I’d have been all “oh noes! my writing ability has left me! woe! woe!” *EYE ROLL*
But a good book, given by a wonderful person has helped me to get, to grok on a truly fundamental level that even when I am not pounding the keyboards like a maniacal monkey, I am still awesome. I still write. I still create.
I am taking the cues from the gray Jell-O between my ears and the advice of friends and loved ones.
Beating myself up, flagellating myself with emotional whips, wearing guilt shirts? Does NOTHING for me.
But apparently cleaning toilets does and huffing my laundry does.
As I was scrubbing yesterday, I realized why a character of mine is so angry at her beloved, and what she is going to do about it.