Sometimes during dry spells or while you’re working on something, you worry that you’ll never be able to think of an idea again. I’ve been there, searching for an idea like a scorpion hunter in a desert, but finding only cactus needles and bramble.
Then you have the opposite problem, where you’ve already got projects coming out your ears and scheduled through the year and into 2014 and beyond, and the ideas just … keep … coming. You don’t have any bloody time to do them all, but they spark inside you wanting to take flame.
So you get frustrated with all the things that get in the way of being able to indulge in your spontaneous fertility: work, sleep, eating, school, your current project and the one after that, the onward march of time. You know, things you need or have no control over.
Times like this, I really wish I could do this as an occupation rather than as a hobby, the thing I do after academic endeavors that I hope will lead to an income one day. It’s tremendously fulfilling. But the condition for writing full-time is living wage, and even successful writers don’t always achieve that, go figure.
I swear, I’m booked through 2015 now. If I could do this full-time and then some, I could double my writing/editing productivity. I could fit everything in.
I’m telling you, brain, STAWP. It’s wonderful that you’re capable of this level of creativity and excitement for the writing process, but you’ve already got this many books to write and you have to make time to edit as well.
I want to write them all, and they’re all on the list, but for Pete’s sake, don’t make that list grow any more. Frustration I have aplenty. I don’t need inspiration; I need completion. Save the rest for the crannies and corners, and I’ll find them when next I scavenge the recesses of my mental attic. Use that wonderful burst of bloom for the story we’re working on. Deal?