Writers’ Block and Middle Age

I’m not altogether sure there is such a thing as writer’s block. In my limited experience, I have found that the only thing that blocks me from writing is the lack of motivation, inspiration, time, technology or sleep.  Oh, and the presence of procrastination.  While I was updating my website with some photos and information, I noticed what a lousy job I was doing with this blog.

There are no excuses for a writer not to write, except, of course, the reasons I listed above. There are many acceptable reasons for not publishing, not selling, not marketing and not finishing a manuscript, a poem or an article.  Writing for me must be treated like medicine for a terminal disease. If I don’t take the minimum dosage, the disease overtakes me… I get lazy. I lose my creativity. I forget some of the ideas I have (I’ve since learned to write them down).

My current dilemma has been this: I started my latest novel six months ago. Easily wrote the character descriptions, an outline and the first 5,000 words. Then, I stopped cold.  The reason I stopped was because I somehow became the subject matter. The story is total fiction; however, it is based on the concept of dealing with suicidal ideation. I became the main character and fell into her same trap. I had to stop writing.  In the last few months, I’ve developed several other stories that I’ve wanted to write, but I kept telling myself that I had to finish the other one first.

Guess what? There are no rules. And there are no excuses.  I started two other books. One in my customary genre, and one in a new venture (murder mystery), and by so doing, I was able to extract myself from the main character in the current book.  Now, I’m juggling three.

Keep your eyes open for:

Voices from the Ledge

Backfired

(A Book to be Names Later)

Happy Reading.

 

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On Transparency

Someone recently called me “transparent” in my writing. I thought about it and the question came to mind, if not here, then where? I obviously can’t show my true feelings in the workplace. Aren’t we taught to leave our problems at home? And it has been proven many times that dragging my work issues home only upsets the dynamics of my family. My husband, like most men, can’t just listen and let me vent. He has to solve the problem and fix things; one, because he’s a man, and two because he hates to see me unhappy.

When my dog is around, I can tell him anything. He doesn’t judge me or try to solve the world’s problems and then go back to his nap. He just naps right through them. I envy him.

A while back, my life took a turn, for a long time, where I had isolated myself, and there were not many friends to whom I could vent. As a result, I created a cocoon for myself and the end result is that I now have very few people in my life to talk to, openly and honestly.

So, I talk to myself. In my blog and in my shower; on a walk or while on the treadmill; while doing computer work or gardening; while mixing up a cake batter or watching a baseball game. There’s a pattern here. All of these things are done alone. And if you know me, you know that I’m lying about the treadmill.

I noticed just recently that I had more followers on this blog than I realized, so being so transparent is probably not such a good idea. Or maybe it is. Maybe I’m not so alone.