Who Flicked My Switch?

I HATE THIS.

I'm sitting here, struggling to find words to describe this AWFUL feeling of...shut-off-ed-ness? This blank, empty sensation, devoid of everything except frustration and the growing urge to empty my Documents folder into the trash and start researching recipes for Mediterranean Veal, like a good little Greek-American hausfrau.

Writer's block? Not so much. More like somebody switched off the power source. It was on two days ago. Two days ago, I was frustrated because I couldn't find the time to sit down. Today...tonight...I can't come up with a coherent blog entry that doesn't sound as if it were written by a wino the shakes.

In my various files, I count twelve unfinished pieces of writing, not counting the completed and sold novella awaiting revision notes from my editor. Even supposing half the unfinished works are worthless piles of feces, and another third of those remaining would need a total rewrite to be even remotely salvageable, that still leaves four chances to open a file and continue a project that has a hope of seeing the light of day.

And I just...can't...do it.

My best buddy Barb wants to know when I'm going to finish that great book I started last year...the one that won that contest, and hooked that agent's interest? The one I stalled out on and could not--COULD NOT--find a way to finish. She thinks I should give it another shot. She's right. She's ALWAYS right. That's why I hired her.

But I'm scared chicken to try. And if you think THAT'S not a painful thing to admit, then you just haven't been paying attention around here. :p

My other best buddy, Don? He loves my dark, kinky stuff, but he thinks I've got a straight horror story in me. Well hell, so do I. The question is, will anyone pay for the straight horror story I have in me? Because crass as it may seem, there came a point about a year ago when I stopped doing this for pure love of the craft and started chasing the specter of an eventual pay-day. But he's right, too, dammit.

And my mother wants to know when I'm going to finish the historical women's fiction she can show to her church group.

And my father wants to know when I'm going to write something he'd like to read.

And my husband wants to know when "this writing thing" is finally going to start paying off.

And my children want to know when they can use the computer.

And look at that...the blog entry that began with three false starts is written, and there's no blood on the keyboard. I feel less like punching the monitor than...maybe...opening a file and...possibly...LOOKING at a manuscript. Probably not historical women's fiction (sorry, Mom) or winning contest entry (sorry, Barb) but something.

Which is good, because a) I have ethical issues with veal, and b) I make a crappy Greek-American hausfrau. (I lack the correct dedication to cleanliness as an art form.)

Onward. Upward. Aren't you glad you stopped by?