Ten books in four years. Two of them published. Number eleven will happen.
This mantra plays in my head every night as I sit on the sofa with my computer in my lap, deleting word after word from my current work.
I have the series concept. I have the characters. I have details from unwritten manuscripts three books down the line.
I also have one iffy chapter and a boatload of trepidation.
JUNKYARD DOG was knocked out in seven weeks. Ten months later, the next two had written, edited, and placed in my future submissions folder between preparing for CONNECTION’s release.
But now? Now I have no words and it’s kind of terrifying.
I’ve run out of excuses for the stoppage. The big move is done, everyone is settled into a routine, I’m working a far less stressful job.
I’m sleeping more than 5-6 hours a night.
And that’s what worries me.
In the back of my mind, I suspect what I always used to joke about is true, that I write best under stress and pressure. My genre is escapism, and creating it has given me an outlet where I have complete control over the direction.
But the need to wrap myself in a fictional world isn’t there right now. I have no need to up a book’s body count to compensate for the frustrations of a job where remaining calm and unflappable is necessary. The urge to hide from the cold is gone, the gorgeous weather here making yard work fun again. And the kids have gotten older, more independent. Those moments of peace are longer and more frequent, the rush to make the most of those precious minutes gone.
So where does that leave me?
For now, I’m pushing through. Whether I write one word or one paragraph, I need to keep on it before the dreaded Imposter Syndrome famous in writer circles takes hold.
I can do this.