…a cacophony of motorcycles and country music is filtering in through my office window. Normally the ten foot tall wall and small be-fountained pond that separate my yard from a relatively major thoroughfare are enough to allow me to forget where I live.
Not this week.
I find myself wondering if the tone of any of the 10,000 or so words I’ve written in the last 7 days have been tinged with the flavor of the celebrations going on outside. I keep the windows open anyway–the weather is too gorgeous not to–and try not to let Aly or Sam get too distracted by thoughts of leather-clad bikers and revving Harley’s as they search for the answers they’re seeking.
Don’t worry, no spoiler alerts are necessary. I won’t give anything away about the sequel to Mirror. I’ve just been so happy to actually be writing again that I couldn’t resist the urge to talk about it–err, well, type about it, I suppose. I was blocked for a while and too scared to admit it.
Yes, I’m one of those writers who fears that an admission of being stuck will just feed it–or, just as terrifying, bring out the advice columnist in everyone you admit it to, and then you’ll find yourself enacting the strangest remedies out of a mix of desperation and a desire not to offend your friends.
Yoga and tai chi, special (and especially disgusting) drinks, odd hours and odder writing exercises. The only thing that’s ever worked for me is finding a way to get excited about my project again–and the way back to excitement has been different every time, so I have no advice to share with anyone else.
My writer friends probably prefer me that way ; )