So I expect to be embroiled in the next book very soon. I can't go on this way. I had a tiny thought that I could do some painting, but my heart just isn't in it. Painting does make me happy, and it's an almost instant fix. You come up with the idea, and get it down on the canvas. But I need more than that. I want total mental immersion day in, day out. I need the pull of my story to get me rushing downstairs to the computer each morning. The painting will have to wait. It's been a long time since the last one and, no doubt, will be a long time until the next.
This blog was meant to be a diary of my writing days. I enjoy talking about the work-in-progress, and sharing the various stages of it, although whether it's ever uplifting and useful to others I'm not sure. The fact is: my blog is a bit pointless if it doesn't talk about the act of writing. Why else would you read it?
And so I am at loose ends. I can't imagine not being a writer. I don't like not writing. Many of you grumble about the inability to write -- from lack of time, or lack of enthusiasm. If it's making you irritable, I understand. I'm about as crabby and sober as I can get, and it has to stop. Booze won't do it.
It's all about to change. I want my other life back. The writing one. I'll let you know how it goes.
"You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you." ~ Ray Bradbury
