For over a week now, I've had trouble writing. I have the opportunity and more than enough time, but when I sit at the computer, open the file, and stare at the words, nothing happens. The mental image that usually plays doesn't, leaving the theater of my imagination dark and empty. And--uncharacteristically for a workaholic--I don't feel like getting up to change the reel.
I thought perhaps it was the chapter itself. Often while revising, my inner editor finds something amiss but neglects to point out the problem. It's then up to me to glean through the harvest of words searching for the typo, repetition, or faulty logic. So this afternoon, after trying "just one more time" (the OCD's mantra), making a few changes and still failing to find the motivation to continue, I sent a portion of the chapter to my critique group with a plea for help.
In the meantime, I opened another story and tried to revise it with the techniques I learned this past year. I made it to the end of page one. After that, nothing.
Well hey, at least I got that far.
It seems I have no choice but to take a fellow writer's advice and take a writing holiday. It will be my first such break in nearly five years of writing, but that alone indicates the rest is well deserved. In the meantime, I'll blog, read, explore the Carolinas, and work in our yard. Perhaps I'll find my muse hiding among the Sweet William growing near the azaleas:
Hmm, I can't say I blame her.