Here is a random list of things I've been thinking about to do with my writing life stalling
I can't push the river. By this I mean that it seems when I come to a standstill I must submit and wait for it to pass. This isn't writer's block - or not as I understand it - more like the stubborn kid part of me who is saying "wait! I can't do this right now." I haven't written anything since the beginning of the
year. Not a word. I haven't been walking either. I've been working. I've been drawing. I've been meditating. All of those things daily and with no problem getting to it. But walking and writing (wait a minute! they both start with 'w'!) have been practices that don't seem to exist for me at this moment. I've pondered on it - the walking is to do with a bad bout of arthritis that has been going on since August and I just now have the meds organized to handle. It is also to do with the weather - -25 today (-39C with wind chill). Sorry - not interested. The writing I'm less sure of - I have a ms out with my mentor and I think it might be the next to last revision so maybe I'm just waiting to see. My new ms I wrote in a red hot heat in November and into December. I still have about 25 thousand words to write but I just look at the chair and say nuh uh. And the two things might be combined - the walking and writing thing I mean. My chair sucks and the area where my computer is is cold. My drawing and sitting practice spaces are warm. I like them. So - head scratch here - I dunnoh.
I'm scared that the book I was working on is a dumb idea. It might be too close to the bone - too possibly hurtful to the community that I love (the Innu community where I work). I'm also thinking that the protagonist was too much me and now I'm birthing a not me character and that is taking some time. By that I mean that I use my sensibilities, passions, etc...as the scaffolding and now it is time to replace it - but maybe not. Maybe I have to be very careful and not leave the walls without support just yet.
Also, maybe I should give up writing novels. I can't give up writing altogether and even though I said I hadn't written a word this year - that is not true. I've written about ten new poems so far. But perhaps novels are just too massive and complicated and so on for me to write. I really don't know. I hate doubting myself but I am. I certainly have no desire to write plays again - maybe if an idea comes to me I'll try it - like for a community production - but generally I'm no longer interested in that form. Maybe I'm done with trying novels. Even as I write this I feel insane. I WANT TO WRITE NOVELS the teenage girl who lives in my head screams. Whoa! She is loud.
See that blueish bench? That's where I sit and draw. It's so warm there - a heater beneath. I love it. Maybe I need a good lap-top? Could it be so simple
I think that's enough thinking out loud for now. It is wearing me out. Perhaps this time of year is simply my cosmic yearly nap-time. Where all I do is consume novels and other books - not create them which takes so much energy. hmmmm....