I admit it. I have commitment problems.
When I started writing in 2014, I followed my spark of inspiration, wrote a novel in what felt like a fit of passion, queried, revised, revised again, queried again. Then I got another idea . . . and did it all again. And again. I was committed to each of those three ideas. Passionately committed. You couldn’t have paid me to walk away from them.
Enter November 2016, when I stalled out with a potential fourth novel.
This sudden creative wall coincided with the time I got pregnant with our new addition, Isaac, now suddenly 3 months old (whoa).
(culprit for creativity low pictured below)
It’s a verifiable fact–for me–that when pregnant and nursing, I slump creatively. (Yep, this ain’t my first time on the baby-making rodeo circuit)
I truly believe that this is because my creativity is redirected to creating a human, and subsequent to birth, creating nourishment for said human.
It goes something like this:
My brain: “Oooh, let’s write that scene where the heroine decides to kill her brother-in-law.”
My body: “NOOOOPE! Making fingernails today. Sorry. Ten fingernails in production.”
Brain: “Oh, okay. I guess I’ll eat this gigantic pile of French fries instead.”
Body: “Now we’re talking.”
Brain: “Maybe I can write that scene later . . .”
Body: “Hey. Less talking more eating.”
Brain: ” ”
So for the past year, when it comes to writing, I’ve been dithering. Philandering. Writing a chapter of this, a page of that. A poem here, a poem there. A short story that makes no sense. Another one that could be great, except a few pages in I cruelly abandoned it. I’ve probably written the first five pages of about a dozen projects over the past year.
However, now I’m back at work. Maternity leave is over. Life is resuming. Can’t just sit on the couch eating bonbons and crumpets anymore, dangit (because that’s of course what happens during maternity leave).
So. Time to commit.
And, just like the stereotypical bachelor who’s freaking out at the idea of committing to his love interest, I am FREAKING OUT at the idea of committing to one of my many, many, manymanymany ideas. I have to do it. I have to walk down the dang aisle, put the ringonit, and before a host of witnesses I must say: I WILL FINISH THIS PROJECT. Come riches, poverty, sickness health, with or without that zit on my chin that is distracting as all get-out, come sleep or no sleep, in rainsnowsunshine (wait, that’s the mailman), but you get the idea, I WILL FINISH THIS PROJECT.
Now . . . which one?