So, yeah. It's my turn to hit the wall. I'm going to forgo all the whining and excuses. It doesn't matter how I got here with my writing. All that matters is what I decide to do now.
My initial response was to close off and get really introspective. Do a lot of thinking that clouds the issue and gets me nowhere. My commonsense knows what to do, but my motivation just isn't there.
I don't know how some authors can work on the same novel for eight years. I'm so sick of the two I've been working on for about a year that I get nauseous every time I open the damn document. The shiny new ideas are calling to me, but not even the allure of something else can tempt me back to fiction.
My creativity is a dead bloated fish belly up in the water.
Hmmmmm. Even that description is trite and tired. Just not into it. Need some inspiration or motivation or circulation or ventilation or calculation or ammunition. I'm leaning towards the ammuition. That way I could pull an Elvis. Instead of shooting my TV, I'll shoot my computer and put the wips out of their misery.
Hoping something good is going on for my writer's meeting Saturday. Nothing's really scheduled, though. If it's writing again, I don't think I'll stay. We'll see. Maybe by then my motivation will catch up with my commonsense.
Here is what my commonsense is telling me to do to the wall - as interpreted by Grover.
C'mon, motivation. Get in line and get going.
3 hours ago