Lately, I’ve been wondering if I’ll ever write
again. I’ve taken a break from feeling that I ‘should’ do this and I ‘should’
do that, in the hope that the muse will just return, take over and restore
order to my messy mind.
Having ‘failed’ in my attempts to be published in
the traditional route, okay, ‘failed’ is tough on myself, when I’ve very nearly
made the cut a few times, I’m still now faced with a few options
- Drown myself in an abyss of tears and become a pain in the ass to live with.
- Self publish. (I have tried to embrace this route but started and never finished. I just keep coming back to ‘Is this what I really want?’)
- Try again. Begin another novel. The problem is, even if I could face what has to happen when its written, edited, polished and honed - I’m not sure I have a ‘killer idea’, one that just has to be written.
See why a break is a good idea?
I’ve started to notice the beautiful shades of the rhododendrons
in the garden. I lay in bed yesterday morning, listening to the rhythmic sound
of the rain dancing on the roof. When I spoke with the postman this morning, I
noticed he wears very thick glasses and I wondered if he’d been on the end of
nasty name calling in school. Placing my mug of tea on the dining table, I put
it on a coaster, not wanting to water mark the table and found myself wondering
why trees never get water marked from the rain.
In short, I think my senses are waking up.
I had gotten to the point where everything I did,
writing wise, seemed senseless. By that, I mean pointless, unfulfilling, crap whatever,
but I also mean sense-less.
I’m not there yet. Not by a long shot – the writing
break still applies. But in beginning to
hear and see things differently,
in wanting to savour touch and taste, ideas are starting to form and I feel hopeful.
If I take it slowly, bite sized paragraphs on nothing in particular, just because I feel like it. Maybe, just maybe...
