I’m not writing a lot these days. I have three open projects, but no new finished ones. None even in the last stages. Nothing that’s ready for beta readers or even close.
What better way to ponder #NotWriting than to write about it?
There was a year when I had three novels, a novella, and a couple of short stories out. I was active in a fan community at the time, so I had various length works in progress there as well, from flash fiction all the way to 30k novellas.
I was reading, too. Actively reviewing books and posting to my own website and two others. In a month, I could read 5-12 books, depending on the length and type. My reviews tend to be lengthy, even if a book is not, so I was easily writing enough reviews each month to compile into a novel-length project.
That was a bit much. Over time, I dropped down in how much I was reading. First, I cut it in half, then in half again. As for writing, last year, I had two novels and a collection of short stories, about half of which were brand new. More manageable.
This year, I had one somewhat bland short story, one novel, and one novella. Reading? Pfft. I don’t even think I made it to one per month.
There are thousands of words written and languishing in online storage. I have at least one project that’s about halfway done that I need to finish, if not for my sake then for readers. Yet here I am, unable to string together more than a handful of terrible sentences at a time. All my words feel dry and tasteless. And I’m so, so bored. Every document I open breeds yawns and contempt. I don’t even want to look at them anymore.
I’d rather do almost anything else. Including writing this blog post.
I don’t necessarily believe in writer’s block. Or at least, not the way most people speak of it, as though it’s a mystical force stealing an author’s words or a medical condition, diagnosable on its own and treated with grit and determination.
There could be dozens of reasons why I can’t (don’t want to) write. The political climate in the US sucks. My family is constantly busy. I now have two other part-time jobs, both of which I love, that take my time away. My health is worse now than it was, with more pain and fatigue. The publishing world is full of aggravation and drama. But I don’t believe any of those are the problem.
Politics have always been bad. The world is full of terrible things. I have free time now that I didn’t have when I started because I was still homeschooling when I wrote my first novel. Sure, my jobs take time, but not all my time. My pain and fatigue are constant, but they are better controlled than when I was diagnosed. At least they are more predictable. Publishing always has drama, and some of the worst of it has even died down.
The truth is that I simply don’t know what’s underneath my lack of desire and perpetual boredom. I do tend to lose interest in things, to be honest. I only worked as a nurse for 5 years before realizing it wasn’t for me. I was so tired of my research by the end of earning my M.S.Ed. that I wanted to scream, and I never did do anything with my degree. I was so utterly burned out from homeschooling that sending my younger child to school was a relief (for both of us).
Maybe that’s where I am. Writing isn’t an outlet anymore. It’s a chore, and one I wish I didn’t have to do most days. I don’t hear my characters’ voices the way I once did, demanding my attention almost to the exclusion of everything else. Instead, all I hear is scraping and clanging and the heavy hammer of judgment.
You’re too flighty.
You jump from thing to thing, project to project, too quickly.
Why can’t you just stick with something?
Why can’t you apply yourself?
It permeates almost every facet of my life. I don’t exactly feel unhappy, just…bored. Frustrated. Lacking challenge.
I hoped that giving myself time off would help. I hardly wrote at all over the summer. Then I hoped having goals and specific projects to work on would help. Neither has done much.
It’s not even that I’m not successful. Financially, writing isn’t much benefit. But in other ways, I’ve certainly grown. Two of my books were finalists for different awards in the last year. I’ve had people tell me that something I wrote really spoke to them.
I don’t know what the answer is. I wish I did.
And I wish I wanted to write again.
