I've been trying to work, really I have. I sat down yesterday and opened Cinder Ugly. I ended up editing a little bit of it and then staring at the screen, wondering where the hell the story was going now. Something I've been wondering since the last spurt of ideas ran out over a month ago.
When I didn't make any progress with CU, I opened that new thing I started last week. I ended up editing a little bit of it and then staring at the screen, trying to rebuild some ideas I'd had while I was falling asleep the night before. Unfortunately, everything I thought of was lost. (Yes, I know. I should've gotten up and written it down, but I was so tired all I wanted was a little sleep.)
Since I couldn't make anything work here at the computer, I got up and went to my recliner. There I took up my notebook and red pen. Usually, I can get things flowing by asking myself some simple questions on paper. Nope. Not a damn thing flowed. Not even a little spritz of inspiration. Not a droplet of insight.
I thought about making a pot of coffee last night and forcing myself to write after Hubs went to bed. Then it occurred to me that oftentimes Owl will use the office for her gaming after we've gone to bed. (Her room is next to our room, so she moves out of there to lessen the noise drifting through our shared wall.) Forcing oneself to create worlds is impossible while someone is gleefully (and noisily) killing things with her friends behind you.
Excuses, excuses. I will find a way around all this.
When I think of all the plans I had for this year and how they've all pretty-much been dashed on the rocks of the Kung Flu, it pisses me off. Maybe getting good and mad will help the words flow. Can't be any worse than where I am now, eh?