It's a good thing. No, really. The past several weeks I've been sinking lower and lower, wondering if I could still write anything that wasn't wholly bad. Not only could I not get myself to sit down and write, I couldn't even think past the first chapter while I was housecleaning (which is when I do an awful large percentage of my plot-planning).
But Emily saved me. Or, rather, L.M. Montgomery did. Reading the Emily books brought me back to myself and what I always believed I could achieve. Emily writes a lot, and I wasn't writing anything, so I felt just a bit ashamed. When I finished the third book yesterday (I could not put it down), I could feel my new story growing beneath my consciousness. It was a wonderful feeling. Not quite the "flash" that Emily gets (I don't think I've ever had one of those), but a faint scent of something brewing in my soul, something that I could write out, something I could make live.
So after I dropped Elizabeth off at her once-weekly day-care, I sauntered into the library. First, I browsed the kid's section, as always. The librarian there was happy to see me because the poster is out about my teen writing workshop I'm doing in August. (More info--and a picture--on that later.) It was just so cool to see my name on a huge poster calling on teens to submit their stories and sign up for the class. I think, perhaps, it just helped a bit because after that I sat down in the much-quieter adult section at a desk that faced outside. And I wrote. But more than that, I jumped in. Any of you who write know what that means. I found the voice, I found the beginning, I found out who Ali is and what he wants and what he accidentally does (that's the "disaster"). Suddenly, I was a writer again and I was seeing, in my mind and soul, a story that is true.
Now the challenge is to write it out, so wish me luck and perseverance.