Friday, September 11, 2015

Enforced Not-Writing.

I have such a compulsion to write that when I step away from it I'm amazed. It seems so important, seems so necessary, and then suddenly -- it isn't.

I finished the second draft of Blood of the Succubus, increasing it by 25K words.  I knew that I wanted to give it one last draft, which is my new requirement. It seemed overwhelming to me.

But I was going to give myself a little time off, maybe do a little researching.

So I'm two and half days off from writing, and it becomes so clear to me that all these "requirements" and "one last drafts" and "overwhelming"ness are self-imposed.

Totally in my own head.

But if I didn't have that, I wouldn't do it.

Anyway, even after this short a time, the idea of a new draft isn't quite as daunting.  But I'm still giving myself a full six days off.  Not writing. No matter how much I want to. 

Just step away, fella.

I figure I'll be completely rejuvenated by next Wednesday, and ready to tackle the final goal.

Really, dare I say it, I have a pretty easy life right now. The store is humming right along, and I'm just sort of making sure it's on course, but other than that...I can take time off.

Since I've eliminated almost anything else but writing -- including gardening, movies, books and socializing (not that I ever did much socializing) when I'm not writing, I have nothing but time on my hands. (I've read 14 books this year.  14!!!! Which has to be the lowest number since I was like 7 years old.)

Most of my fellow writers are younger, and still have family and work constraints. But I don't feel too guilty about it.  I put my 30 years into the store, working 60 hour weeks.  I put off writing for 25 years.

I'm due.

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