More like Angst from the Coffeehouse. This week I hit a wall. The words wouldn’t come. No matter how much head-banging I did. No matter how much wailing and gnashing of teeth. And the worst part? I was certain this was it. That I was done, I’d written my last novel.
But how could this be it, when I have a story? One I’m totally jazzed about writing? I can see said story. Not clearly, but the big picture, what it could be. If only I could write my way out of a paper bag.
But the words won’t come. I rage and fret. I listen to the world’s smallest violin. I eat chocolate. My neck and shoulders ache. My head and back. It’s over. My career, finished. Kaput.
My sweet husband reminds me that I get like this with every new book. That he’s heard each of these wails before. It will be okay, he assures me. He should know, my 30th novel, JUSTICE FOR SARA, will be on the stands in August and he’s survived the birth of each one. But he’s my husband, so naturally I don’t listen.
Then low and behold--like every time before--the clouds part and the wall crumbles. And the words come. I know what I’m doing and what to write next. I have a story to tell. I am a writer.
And as write blissfully into the night, I promise myself that from now on I will trust the process. That for me, part of the process involves a wall and a lot of head banging. That doesn't mean I can’t write or that my career is over. It just means, angst happens.
Even in the coffeehouse.
Published on February 07, 2013 13:36
Keep those awesome books coming, Erica!