Maybe it’s just me, but I’m starting to get a little freaked out. I’ve been told that I should be enjoying this time off, maxin’ and relaxin’, kicking back and living the high life. But something keeps nagging at me, chewing at my nerve endings like a hungry gerbil snacking on a carrot stick.
See, I haven’t written… really written since March 1st. That’s when I finished Seed. Sure, I’ve gone into the manuscript and done clean-up duty. I’ve tweaked scenes and cut over ten thousand words from the manuscript because they were unnecessary. But I haven’t written in the writer sense since then.
I thought this was going to be awesome. Man, you should have seen me. While I was working on the manuscript, two and sometimes three hours a day (after eight hours of work), seven days a week, basically under house arrest until the novel was done… all I kept thinking was how fantastic it would be to have a ‘break’. Well, break is here… and now all I do is think about writing.
And it isn’t thinking about writing in the ‘I can’t wait to get back to it’ sense. Oh no. These thoughts are much more sinister than that. There’s a tiny voice inside my head that’s asking me why I don’t have a solid idea for my next project yet, and when I don’t have an answer it giggles and tells me I’m spent.
That’s right. Spent. Done. Tapped out.
I’ve used all of my creativity on one project.
I know I’m not the only one that feels this way. Hell, I’m sure some of the most seasoned authors go through this exact same anxiety. You type the end and for a moment you’re victorious, for a brief second you couldn’t be more content; and then that question creeps in and screws everything up: what next?
Oh, little voice, how I wish I could murder you. Oh, how I’d wrap my fingers around your tiny throat…
So here I sit, calm on the outside, panicky on the inside, excited about getting Seed onto digital shelves, dreading what I’ll do when it’s out there… all grown-up and independent and not needing me anymore. I doubt it’ll ever call. I’ll only show up for holidays. They grow up so fast, which is why Seed must acquire brothers and sisters, and fast. But what if they’re ugly? What if they’re slow? What if I can’t stand them and have to abandon them in the desert? What if I get caught? Oh god, what if I get caught…
…yes, I’m still talking about writing. What are you talking about?
I’ve always liked the word ‘prolific’. Maybe this neurosis will help me achieve that title. Maybe the fact that I can’t sit still for long is a good thing. Or maybe it’ll just end up making me nuts, rocking back and forth in a rubber room, whispering how the stories won’t speak to me… they just won’t speak…