It’s now been nearly a month since I’ve written a single syllable toward my goal of being a professionally published author.
As the weeks passed, I considered writing at length, discussed my desire to do so with others, and even described my plans for upcoming novels with some endearingly enjoyable people I met only once.
Yet I never did more than that. And now, sitting here at my desk painstakingly confessing to the blank page, my hands are sluggish and unresponsive, the lackluster desire to get back into the groove slow to break them from their catatonic state, their satisfaction with the current status quo palpable as they deftly navigate my newly purchased smartphone.
That’s not the reason for my lack of literary construction, though. Not at all. And though I confess the smartphone’s allure is more than tantalizing, I don’t believe there was a single catalyst behind my falling through the cracks of writer’s block. Whether it was a wickedly encroaching bout of depression, the absence of a witty muse to spark my interest, an overabundance of responsibilities and concerns, or, most recently, a simple power disruption from a stubbornly impolite woman named Sandy, it all seemed to suggest one simple fact: for the last few weeks, writing was almost always the furthest thing from my mind.
The last few days, though, I’ve felt the itch. Like the man in the desert, I’ve been tempted, pulled back to the dark depths of my type fonts. Now I’m back, first with this entry and then, hopefully, with another go at a novelization.
However, I’m uncertain, should I continue on this afternoon, sometime this week or even this coming weekend, if my work will be building upon what I have completed of the Third Book, As I mentioned above, depression, even modest to moderate, wildly affects my writing and the majority of the Third Book is meant to be positive, loving and a stroke of heartfelt happiness.
And, right now, that’s simply not me.
So, maybe I’ll prematurely launch into the Fourth Book—the complete and utter opposite of what I have just described. Or perhaps beyond even that to the Fifth Book, which, though only partially outlined, has the potential to be the most grim, dark and cynical, though disturbingly humorous, outing yet.
See, I’ve got plans, and despite everything they refuse to be forgotten. I can forestall them only so long before they rear their misshapen foreheads and demand to be catered upon. It’s a nightmare I cannot forget when I wake, an eternal damnation I must have abandoned all hope to address. It is writing, and no matter what I do, no matter how successful or meager my creations are eventually considered, I know I will never escape its grasp.