One of my rules is, I have to write something at least once a day. Preferably on a book or script, but something. Even if it's just in a journal or notes for the story or something. But it's been over a week since I've done anything...and today was the first time I even began to notice it.
Normally, if I don't scribble at least something down, I go into a sort of withdrawal. But I've coasted through this week of artistic inactivity. Maybe it's because I was tired. My whole rhythm was thrown off for several days, getting up at 6:30 or 7am and working nearly non-stop at packing books. I worked 11 hours on Thursday, with only a salad for lunch. Then I drove home on Friday but didn't get in till nearly 8pm thanks to Toronto traffic (they're trying to out-do LA and doing a damn good job of it). Then I got up at 6am Saturday morning to hop down to NYC to look at another massive packing job, did a hell of a lot of walking around both the book fair and to and from the job's site, and I didn't get home till 1:30 the next morning. I'd like to think that's all it is.
But in the past when I've done stretches like that, I'd whine about it and then do a little something on a story. Even then, I needed to. Like a drunk needs a drink or a junkie a fix. Not this time. Instead, I've watched the first 12 episodes of Friends and the first 3 hours of Battlestar Galactica...and that's it.
Oh, I did get nudged a little. Don't even know by whom in which story. I sent off an e-mail to an associate DA in Riverside for some info for The Vanishing of Owen Taylor, but I can't say that was it. Nor was it Carli's Kills or Underground Guy, despite thinking Carli'd be fun to take to the extreme and Dev's drifting close to crazy-as-hell. At least, I can't say for sure. I had another story I was working on, once, called Marked for Death; it sort of waved at me. Only nothing is slamming my head against the wall or brightening my ideas up or giving me the joy of putting words together.
All I know with any certainty is, I don't really feel the withdrawal symptoms of not writing, yet...and that scares me, a little.
Normally, if I don't scribble at least something down, I go into a sort of withdrawal. But I've coasted through this week of artistic inactivity. Maybe it's because I was tired. My whole rhythm was thrown off for several days, getting up at 6:30 or 7am and working nearly non-stop at packing books. I worked 11 hours on Thursday, with only a salad for lunch. Then I drove home on Friday but didn't get in till nearly 8pm thanks to Toronto traffic (they're trying to out-do LA and doing a damn good job of it). Then I got up at 6am Saturday morning to hop down to NYC to look at another massive packing job, did a hell of a lot of walking around both the book fair and to and from the job's site, and I didn't get home till 1:30 the next morning. I'd like to think that's all it is.
But in the past when I've done stretches like that, I'd whine about it and then do a little something on a story. Even then, I needed to. Like a drunk needs a drink or a junkie a fix. Not this time. Instead, I've watched the first 12 episodes of Friends and the first 3 hours of Battlestar Galactica...and that's it.
Oh, I did get nudged a little. Don't even know by whom in which story. I sent off an e-mail to an associate DA in Riverside for some info for The Vanishing of Owen Taylor, but I can't say that was it. Nor was it Carli's Kills or Underground Guy, despite thinking Carli'd be fun to take to the extreme and Dev's drifting close to crazy-as-hell. At least, I can't say for sure. I had another story I was working on, once, called Marked for Death; it sort of waved at me. Only nothing is slamming my head against the wall or brightening my ideas up or giving me the joy of putting words together.
All I know with any certainty is, I don't really feel the withdrawal symptoms of not writing, yet...and that scares me, a little.
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