They haven’t shown up.
It’s been a week. A week when I should be writing a book. I should be a quarter of the way through. I have a deadline. I had a plan. Write fast and intensely. Bang out a first draft as quickly as possible. Use the pressure of the deadline to kick start the creativity. It worked before. I’m sure it will work again. It just hasn’t yet.
I’m just sitting here with my hands near the key board. These are the characters that I love. I know everything about them. They have their own Facebook pages. I know what they eat for breakfast.
But right now, I don’t know what they do next.
Except I do know. I have a nicely planned out chart, with columns for each character and another for the major action in each chapter. Chapter by chapter I have the story planned out with the appropriate buildup in tension.
It’s a great plot. I lie awake at night thinking about how awesome it’s going to be. The last book in the series. The big finale. In my head, it’s amazing with epic fight scenes, passionate love and the neat resolution of all outstanding themes.
But it’s still in my head.
Every time I go to start writing, there’s a wall between me and the page. Giant concrete slabs separating my story from the page. I feel the words spinning inside me but they whirl nervously around my legs instead of flowing neatly through my fingers.
I’ve tried switching music, working out of my house, working at home, changing rooms, changing chairs, sitting on cushions, throwing the cushions on the floor. I’ve drunk coffee, then water to flush out the toxins. I’ve been to the bathroom, promised myself chocolate as soon as I finish a chapter, then eaten the chocolate anyway because ‘the sugar will help.’
Every day I pray that the words will flow. That they will be good words, the right words, His words.
I know that the words are there, trying as hard to get to me as I am to get to them.
Right now I’m just hoping that if I sit here long enough eventually they will come.
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