Scarred, Not Scared

After being deeply wounded a whisker over a year ago, and dealing with the shock of that, I was in a place where I simply couldn't write anything new.

But I suppose the psychic scar tissue forms, and one carries on. I'm definitely more in that place, in that my muse (who had politely kept quiet when I was in my bad place), has started speaking to me again, conjuring up ideas that need to be novels.

So, I'm guardedly happy about that. This past year has been terrible for me, but I'm finding my footing again, and am limping back into my writerly place, which brings me some comfort (?)

I use "comfort" loosely because the masochism inherent to writing is always there. I guess it would qualify as "familiar pain" if nothing else. There's reassurance in that, on some level.

I mapped out ten books I need to tackle over the next three years. The first are ones that were done that I need to just revise a bit before they're ready for the world. The rest are new works. The important thing is that my muse is back with me, urging me to create again.

I don't even mourn the past year (except that it was a bad time). All I have is the present and the future, and a desire to claw my way out of the shallow grave I'd been tossed into by circumstance.