Stealing my title today, because that’s kind of where my head is at.
I’ve always thought of myself as a writer. Since the first stories came out of my head in elementary school, I wrote whenever I found spare time. Poetry, essays, short stories, eventually novellas and novels. Words were my escape, my sanctuary, my safe space. One would think that the validation of being signed to an agent, having one’s book shopped to editors in the industry, would only generate more words and more stories.
Not for me.
Right now, I’m in a strange and unusual place. I have some ideas, sure – I keep a small notebook in my purse to scribble down book dreams that come to me whenever and wherever. But I’ve had a really hard time putting butt in chair and actually writing stuff.
Logically, now is the best time to write more – when my agent sells my book, it’s important to have more waiting in the wings. However, I have two – one completed and revised and possibly ready to go (the last agent that requested a full on it told me she loved it, couldn’t sell “sick lit” in the wake of The Fault in Our Stars), and the other, first draft done, my mentor’s notes ready for the revision process – so I don’t feel any pressure to be writing a new book right this second.
But there’s a part of me that worries about the fact that I’m not wanting to write at the moment. I mean, I WRITE – I have a weekly YA review blog (sharemyya.wordpress.com if you’re interested), and I write here once in a while. But as far as sitting down and creating worlds and bringing new characters to life? It’s not there.
Hence the title. I hate myself for not writing, and I am afraid I may never have what it takes to write again.
Someone please tell me this is normal?