I had grand writing plans for the summer. I pictured myself happily typing away out on the front porch, back by the pond, or even in the living room. Words would pour from my finger tips and the pages would accumulate faster than I ever imagined. My story would take shape, my characters would come to life, I'd be back in the groove.
So far, that hasn't happened. Now granted, I'm only officially less than a week into summer vacation. But I've discovered that getting back on track with my writing isn't like turning a light switch on. There's much more to it. Motivation. Drive. Persistence. And the willingness to sit and actually get it done. Those things have not yet made an appearance. I've dabbled in some other writing things. I finished my second round of edits on This Feels Like Home and came up with an opening letter to the readers. I've made a list of the things I need to do to update my web-site. But other than that...
...Zip. Nada. Zilch.
I have a project I could be working on. And an idea for another one. I just don't have the aforementioned drive or motivation to do anything about them.
I've been caught up in the sheer joy of being able to run errands (in my convertible now that the weather is warm - FINALLY!) during the day. Of getting together with friends in the evening or watching triple overtime playoff hockey (Go Hawks!) and not having to worry about going to bed early because I have to get up in the morning. Of taking a book out onto the front porch and enjoying the sounds of summer around me while I immerse myself in someone else's story. All of these things are wonderful. But they aren't helping me one whit get going with my writing.
At this point, I'm not sure if I force it...just get the dang lap top out and do something...or if I just wait it out. I mean, let's be honest, it's not like I have adoring legions of fans out there just waiting on pins and needles for my next book. This is a hobby for me. Something fun to do. If I make it into more thing to stress me out that I feel like I have to get done, there's no joy in that. This brings me to the conclusion that I couldn't ever be a full-time writer. If I actually had to make a living doing this, I'm pretty sure I'd wind up in the poor house.
But I would like to recapture the fun, the joy, the pleasure of writing. So like Scarlett says, " After all, tomorrow is another day." Because today I'm heading off to the Botanic Gardens with a friend, then lunch, then to get my nails done.
Until next time,