The philosophy of...

This morning as I was easing into the idea of work before having to open the shop (the day job), I had a discussion with myself— yes I do this often, as well as talking with my characters—about why it is I haven't been writing the way I did with the first and second novels. (We won't talk about the third, in which I drove myself crazy before finishing it. But I survived it having learned something.) Why it is that for days on end, I might not touch the two novels I'm to be working on right now. Especially the stand alone novel, as I was so gung ho when I got the idea and started it.

I listed all kinds of things, and I agreed with myself that there are some valid points. But I'm not going to list them here, because in the last hour, I've come to the realization that perhaps the biggest problem at the moment (and the constant listing of things in my head and starting to worry over it certainly contribute to this) is that I've lost some of the fun of writing. The process. I'm dangerously close to making this seem like work. It already is skirting work at times. This was never supposed to be work, and you know what I mean, as of course, I'm not saying that writing doesn't take work.

Where is my joy? It seems awfully soon to have lost it.

I need it back. I need that rush of a good scene that makes me giddy and makes me keep going. Stop analyzing and just keep going. I had it in the opening of book four for the Paris Immortal series. I had it when I started Deepest Fears. But so soon it fled, with me nagging myself over details and oh shit, what comes next worries.

This morning, I'd given myself ideas for getting back to writing, and felt very inclined to get to it once I got off work. But then I got off work, and here I sit, not feeling so gung ho. Feeling a bit mentally drained.

I'm sure this won't last forever. I know we all have the "oh god I'm spent, I'll never have another idea" sorts of times. I just wish I could truly shut off the one voice in my head that's not helping matters—my little voice. Just for a while. Then perhaps I could pay more attenion to my characters who are likely just as present as they always were, but can't get through the MUCK in my brain.

This was never supposed to be a chore. Normally it isn't. But at the moment, I realize I've been avoiding it like it's a chore.

I need a good mental slap.

And...that is all. I'm going to drink the wine I didn't end up guzzling the other night, and see if I can relax this mental grip. This isn't really "classic" writer's block (whatever that is), as I worried and wondered a couple of weeks ago. No, I believe this is me blocking myself.

I'm off now to see if I can find my joy. It's around here somewhere, I've just misplaced it.