Sometimes, writing is my salvation. Other times, I can barely make my mind focus enough to concentrate on the work in progress.
When your personal life is in turmoil, as mine has been since mid-October, finding the right words and motivations for a bunch of imaginary people could be theraputic. It should be, right? And it was, until I got detailed, intensive revisions on another book.
I lost myself in those revisions. Dove in, lived and breathed those characters. Rewrote, cut, wrote new, until the book sparkled and shone (I hope). And then, once I'd turned that book back in, I returned my attention to the book I was now quite a bit behind on writing.
I cannot focus. The story, once so intriguing and fun, no longer holds my interest. So I started at the beginning, just as if I was doing revisions. I cut 20 pages, rewrote, and wrote new. And now I'm on Chapter 3 (of 9 written so far) and have to force myself to open the book file every day. I'm typing this right now as a sort of avoidance technique.
On the wake of dealing with more stuff with my elderly father and even more stuff with my terminally ill mother, I feel spent. Exhausted. Without a single creative bone left in my nerveless body. I've tried listening to music, watching good movies and TV shows, and reading. Nada. Zip. Zilch.
So maybe I need to try praying? I just asked my agent to ask for an extension, as there is no way this book is getting done on time.
Speaking of which, I'd better get back to it. Wish me luck.