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Well, it had to happen.
After a whirlwind of a July, where I wrote more than 20K words – they flowed like never-ending wine, the good stuff, mind you – August ground to a horrible crawl. It was the hangover of the summer. I’d wanted to crank out another 10K words, but barely managed half that much.
What happened? Real life, for one thing. After my epic month of writing, I decided to take a few days off, which inevitably ended up much longer. We went white water rafting. It was fun, made more fun in that I didn’t fall out of the boat. It was scenic, as we traveled through parts of Colorado you don’t see from the car window. Then there was also a lot more work than I’d anticipated (which isn’t much anyway, but a few more hours each day leaves me exhausted and unable to think creatively). I have since semi-retired from my retirement job, getting the house back into some semblance of normalcy. When you have pets, you really should vacuum more than once every two weeks. Plus the Pooch and I are taking a long mother-chihuahua road trip, and I have to make sure the Big Guy doesn’t starve to death while I’m gone.
It doesn’t end there. My puppy went to training class, then got sick, then got neutered. He’s nearing adolescent puppyhood, so he’s not sleeping as much and barking more and not listening at all. (He’s pulling on my sweater as I type this, like the Coppertone pup.) Then my cat became gravely ill. (That vet made bank off us, yes indeedy.) He’s okay for now, but he must have lost five pounds and still doesn’t eat as much as he used to. We looked for houses in the mountains (many houses – thanks Realtor Jeanne), put an offer on one, and it was declined. THEN I went to the doctor and found out I have sciatica. Hello, physical therapy and crappy health insurance. Oh, and I bought a couple of therapeutic pillows to sit on and those babies aren’t cheap.
I could go on, but I’d bore you.
The big thing is that I’m at the point of my novel where I’m filling in. “Doing the plumbing,” as Michelle Richmond says. The garden has been planted, but now comes the weeding. (YUCK.) The bones are there, the fun stuff is written, now it’s a matter of sitting down and finishing the darned thing. Where in July I thought I needed a couple of chapters and a few scenes, in August I realized I need at least three chapters and a couple dozen scenes. I started writing, and writing, and then not writing, because at 88K words I thought I should be closer to “The End” than I am. Feelings of frustration and inadequacy swelled up.
*sigh*
It’s a matter of getting butt in chair and opening the file (which is always open just in case I am hit by the lightning of inspiration, which happens, but not often enough for me).
The point is, writing is not a straight line up, or a straight line across. It’s ups and downs. It’s zig-zagging all over the map. It’s taking two steps forward and five steps back. It’s a quiet lull and a frenzy of activity. It’s a marathon and a leisurely stroll. It happens, and it doesn’t.
I keep telling myself to give myself a break, just as I unearth the cattle prod called internal nagging to goad myself into forward movement.
Small goals, then action.
Forgive your Real Life, and then carry on.
