The urgent projects are done or quiet for a moment.
I’m left with neither distraction nor excuse as I face the very real frustration of no progress to speak of in terms of writing over the last several months.
Writers’ block? Perhaps, though I don’t lack for ideas. Only last night I was jotting down more ideas for revisions of Hall (aka Dragon Seal). They join a long list of intended changes for that book. One recent critique recommended completely redesigning the opening, which has been redesigned so many times now I can’t trust myself to say where the story truly begins.
I expect my problem has far more to do with focus. Forger was dusted off recently as well and has a long list of changes, too. Some of them should be easy but most of the changes for each book involve drastic alterations and thus comes with strings of inconsistencies to correct.
The line by line tweaks can seem so pointless when the whole paragraph or scene may be obsolete tomorrow.
I toy with the idea of bringing on an editor, like my friend Tim. Maybe I crave company to help me establish clarity and a plan.
At moments I wonder if I’m just frustrated by what seems like delay. Perhaps I need a short story to push through to hopefully garner a taste of success in the short term. Even in that arena I don’t lack ideas. I have a couple partials and one that I was supposed to revise and resubmit.
Surely it wouldn’t take that much once I apply myself.
And yet I feel all tangled up and disconnected as I mull over so many questions. What is my true genre? Am I stuck in an endless cycle? What is my USP (unique selling point)? Have I gotten too complacent?
Although my Husband is willing to talk, even about my stories, I can’t help but feel the impression that he likes the extra focus on housekeeping and real life duties, instead of the seemingly endless quest of writing.
Voices of council weave around me, old and new, pulling and tugging in so many directions. I long to adapt. No one wants their story or themselves dubbed sloppy, arrogant, premature or evil.
Yet I know well I must pick and choose my priorities and battles.
I am the self-proclaimed jumper, an outcast in so many ways that I could never overcome even if I wanted to. Lately I have felt reminded of how much of an odd duck I am. There remain bits and pieces that can’t bear to be forgotten and entrenched too deep in my heart to ignore.
I know there are decisions that I must make and time will not wait long, but for this moment I am adrift. I’m trapped in the paradox of a dreamer lost in her dream, the loner haunted by loneliness.