I'm having something of an issue, here. I cannot find the impetus...need...ability...want...anything...to write. I feel like I've lost the spark. The desire to share the stories in my head. I shut down the moment I open my laptop and try to start in on one.
Home Not Home? My brain scatters into a dozen hiding holes and I cannot think. There is no passion for it, right now. No demand within me to get it done. It's just all over the place.
I tried shifting to another work -- Book 3 of Blood Angel, where Léonidès finds a man he wants as his mate but needs the okay from the Oiym to transition him into another Blood Angel vampire...and I feel nothing for it. It sits there, blank. Even considering adding an erotic dream to show what Léon wants from Franz, his chosen one, doesn't even pique my own prurient needs...if I still have any.
On top of it all, I'm heading to LA for a whirlwind packing job and fear it's going to be a mess. Fly in Wednesday, pack, transport to the warehouse and prep the shipment on Thursday then fly home on a redeye. It feels rushed and unnecessary. Same for Seattle at the end of the month.
I'm feeling very old. And tired. And more than a little hopeless. Like I haven't achieved anything. None of my books sell well. I've lost money on 3/4 of them. I'm sinking deeper and deeper into debt. The political future is looking very grim, no matter who's elected in November.
Harris would be the better choice for President, by a long shot, but the MAGAt crowd won't vanish if that convicted felon is beat, again. They will only get worse, like rabid dogs. And if he wins, it's death everywhere.
Maybe I'm just in a low phase of my biorhythms. I dunno. It's just hard as hell for me to get worked up into doing anything, right now. That I did my laundry is a big deal.
Oh...and I also made my bed with clean sheets. Woohoo!
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