"A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity." –Franz Kafka
There’s a funny thing that happens when I don’t write.
I start going a little crazy.
Not stark raving mad crazy or anything. But the difference in mindset and behavior is very, very obvious to me.
It’s been a week and a day since I’ve written. I finished the first draft of Emerson last Tuesday. And since then things have felt…weird.
I visited my parents, which was fun. I watched Dexter and True Blood, like I normally do. I did some reading—police-related research and a book of short stories by Clive Barker (how the hell have I not been reading him, oh, all my life? Love, love, love). I did some shopping—perhaps a little too much—buying a couple necessities from Sephora, some new clothes for work, and the 2014 Writer’s Market ebook. I’ve been nursing an injury, trying to get lots of rest, working on a bunch of projects at the day job, etc.
I’ve been busy. But it feels like I haven’t been.
It feels like there’s something I should be doing. It feels like something’s missing. There’s a hole in my gut—I can feel it—and its edges are burning, stinging, begging for me to whip out some words.
I have tons of ideas for novels—the next Emerson books, of course, plus a few completely unrelated ideas for other series or standalone books. My head is filled with ideas for longer stories. But the only novel-length story I should be working on right now is Emerson—that’s what needs to get my laser focus for the moment.
I’m getting an itch to write a short story. I don’t really have any short story ideas these days. But I’m hoping one comes to me soon. My ideas tend to come out of nowhere, so I’m trying not to overthink it and just hoping one comes up organically.
I need to write the crazy away.