Let’s talk about writer’s block.
It’s real. Sickeningly so. I experienced more than my fair share during 2021. As I sit here on the first day of January 2022, I fear the phenomenon will persist. It’s a sobering thought for a new author trying to establish a name for herself. Forget my dreams of becoming a bestseller, how can I grow my backlist at all if the words won’t come?
The ideas are there, developed to varying extents. I can visualize entire scenes, plot points, and character arcs. Hell, I know the direction I intend for each series. I’ve mapped out every character’s journey. I’ve even envisioned spin-off novels and reveled in the little Easter eggs planted for future books. Beautiful stories that are in there . . . somewhere.
I bought a planner, so that means I have plans. Right?
I think so.
But my muse is silent.
I cup my ears, desperate for a whisper. I hear nothing. Not even a pin drop. The stillness reverberates to my soul.
How could words that once flowed out of me, leave behind a desiccated riverbed? Cracked and thirsty. I’m the parched fish, flopping around while my scales grow brittle, wondering where the water went.
I’ve tried other writers’ strategies—like taking a break or reading for pleasure—but they haven’t helped. No matter how deeply I dredge into my mind, I can’t reach my creative spring. Has it dried up forever? Is it frozen somewhere beneath the doubts and insecurities I can’t shed?
Am I broken?
They say to just write something. Anything.
So here I am, praying for a trickle. Dragging the kicking and screaming words from within and attempting to string them into sentences. My unwritten books watch from the sidelines, hoping for my attention.
Maybe I’ll try again tomorrow.