This is the last thing I wrote on any original fiction project, back at the end of November. Not as long ago as I’d thought, but it’s been a slow autumn. It’s been a slow year, writing-wise. I’ve had flashes of inspiration – the story on the left hand page there is now a complete first draft.
It’s not even that my writing brain has gone. When I sit down and talk with myself I can pull a plot together and work out who’s who and why they’re up to whatever it is. That process still spits up the first few gems that a story can accrete around.
But the wheels are stiff. I have to push and push and push to keep them turning. In fact, I have to push and push and push to do pretty much anything at the moment, and writing, which isn’t my main or even a significant source of income, never comes to the top of the priority list. Which is sad, but well, that’s just the way it is at the moment.
Anyway, shortly after I’d written that page I decided that this really wasn’t working, and if I kept on pushing I was going to end up resenting what’s usually a source of joy for me, and take the rest of the year off. Times and seasons. And even if this is a much longer fallow season than I’m used to, I still need to trust that it will come to an end and that my drive will come back.