I’m a little reluctant to admit this…

…but in the past few months I’ve been struggling to write for the first time in my career. Since 1992 or so, I’ve been very focused and extremely disciplined when it comes to writing, but a family crisis early this year brought me to a screeching halt for several weeks. Though I am writing again, finally,¬†everything is different than it was before.

That’s not necessarily a bad thing. Writing-wise, life was actually more difficult before the crisis hit than it was immediately afterward.

BenchIn October and November of last year, the voices in my head went eerily quiet and it’s lonely in here without them.

I wondered for a while if I would ever write again, or if I’d even want to. I’ve known since I was very small that I wanted to write novels–and that’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do–so losing the desire to write was terrifying for me. I struggled for a few months but finally came away with the certain knowledge that yes, I do want to write still, and yes, I will write again.

I’m not hearing the voices in quite the same way, and I don’t know if I’ll ever return to the way things were before, but I’m not sure I want to. Before, I battled an almost constant sense of panic–Will I meet this deadline? Will my editor like what I write? Will readers like what I write? Will the reviews be positive or negative? Will the money arrive on time? Will it arrive at all or be enough?

Now, strangely, I’m filled with the calm assurance that all I can do is my best on any given day. If I do that, it is enough.


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