I spent the week before last at an intensive art workshop. I was so tired at the end of each day I had no energy for writing – or thinking, for that matter. Last week was full of chores and errands, and I’m back to the book. Having that break and doing something creative – other than writing – kicked my muse into gear. The last few days were productive beyond my expectations.
This sudden burst of focused energy is not typical for me, but it allows me to indulge my preferred NiTe functions. As an introvert, I already enjoy living inside my head. Being able to harness my creativity and just spill words onto the page without my usual Editor filter… everything else slips away.
I also feel detached (which is confusing for me, and I’m sure for my husband and boyfriend, too). My brain is busy processing ideas, so I’m spacy, distracted. I’m sure it feels dismissive to others, and that’s not how I want to treat them. (I really hate how unpredictable my state of mind can be from one day to the next, but that’s a topic for another day).
I realize some of the new ideas I have will be rabbit holes and nothing more. I know this expansion phase is typical for writers when they’re mid-project. All of a sudden the piece you’re working on grows arms and legs and tentacles. Before long, it’s barely recognizable. I’m trying to exercise good judgment: pursuing ideas that increase tension, build character, or advance the plot without adding a lot of complexity. So far, I’m pleased with the ways my story has evolved. I realize that may change; I may conclude it’s too ambitious and trim it back. But as I see it, this may be the only book I ever write, so I should write it the way I want to the very best of my ability.
It’s possible what I want to write won’t sell, and I’m okay with that. The more time I spend writing this novel, the more I’m eager to complete it for no one other than me. Not everyone who loves writing writes. Not every writer who starts a book actually finishes. Writing a full-length novel will be…well, it’ll be off my Bucket List.
It’s funny that as I’ve had this huge burst of inspiration, my sex drive has gone right in the tank. And I mean, plummeted. It feels like when I was on Prozac; that if I had to place my libido somewhere between 0 and 10, I’d call -2 optimistic.
I have to laugh at the coincidence(?) I so often accuse men of having ‘two heads and enough blood to use only one of them at a time.’ Sorry guys, I guess we can be like that, too.