This past week has been hot and humid. There aren't enough chemicals in the verse to tame the frizzle ball on top my head. Though, lately, my mound of curls is the last thing on my mind. Which says a lot considering how heavy it weighs down upon my noggin. No, instead I've been worried about how I can get back into the groove of writing let alone make it sizzle.
Some would claim this streak as writers block. Not me. I'm feeling burned out. The worst part is that it isn't due to lack of ideas. I think up plots in my sleep. I've fallen into that pesky trap of all work and no play. My creative juices are drying up thanks to Corporate America, kiddies, and the hubby. The energy I put into my time, aka writing, are going elsewhere.
Whatever is an aspiring novelist to do?
I'd normally say party in the usa. You know how it goes. You blow off some steam, remind yourself of what it felt like to be young again, and put some life back into your dull, pete-and-repeat existence. But I cannot find the time. Then there is the old hermit trick. The cliche of the author locking themselves in a cabin far, far away with nothing but a pack of smokes and bottle of their favorite liquor sounds intriguing. Been there, done that -minus the booze.
Other writers have said write something, anything. It doesn't matter what it is or if it is any good just keep your butt in chair (BIC) and write. So here is my anything else.
Hopefully tonight I will write to my heart's content, ignore the humidity, the curls, the crazy childhood antics, kiss the hubby goodbye, and find happiness with my imaginary friends. I will forget about the unanswered queries, block out anything relating to the business end of my career choice and job obligations. I will let my words burn bright. They will entrance the reader. With each new sentence I will recharge my battery. Heck, typing this paragraph with all its conviction give me hope.