More Hugo/Nebula reading last week, and got into a bit of unspecific dream time.
See, I don’t know what my next project will be. The muse hasn’t dropped any firebombs of inspiration on me lately. So I thought I would just sit down with a notebook and pen, and see where that took me. I figured if the muse is being a bit standoffish, maybe I could entice her, court her a little.
Honestly, this dearth of inspiration has been bugging me for the past several months. I’ve been telling myself that it’s nothing to be concerned about–but some small part of me just hasn’t been convinced. Some small part of me has been wondering if something is seriously wrong, if my writer brain is broken . . . or if I’ve somehow lost interest in the whole thing . . . or I’m really just a one- or two-trick pony who has run out of tricks.
Not happy thoughts, these.
But then I had to consider that I’ve been putting out some respectable verbiage over the past four years. Not spectacular amounts, mind you, but respectable. Probably the most productive writing years of my life. I’ve written four novels in that time (counting From Earth I Have Arisen, which just barely qualifies, but which counts . . . at least for the nonce). I’ve started two series, creating new milieux out of whole cloth. And you know, at that pace, it is perhaps unsurprising that the well gets tapped from time to time. If that’s never happened to me before, maybe it’s because I’ve never been this productive before. Maybe this is part of my ongoing evolution/maturation as a writer.
And if that’s the case, then it’s only natural that my processes must also evolve and mature. So maybe instead of waiting for the muse to visit, I need to go knock on her door every once in a while. Maybe instead of waiting by the phone, I should pick it up. Maybe at this stage in our relationship, I’m expected to court her. And I can live with that.
Revelation or rationalization? You decide. I’ll be in the corner, scribbling.
No updates for Write Club.
Catch ya on the flip side . . .
