It’s similar to an almost-dead battery doing its best to turn that starter over one.more.time. The desperate tickTOck of a grandfather clock needing to be wound. The slow painful screeeeeeeech of a hinge desperately in need of oil.
It’s the dreaded writer’s block.
The problem is not coming up with story ideas. The problem is that there’s no such thing as “quiet writing time” anymore. The end of the semester, changes in the family dynamic, and the neverending piles of laundry all conspire to keep me from completing a thought. I’ve tried mindmapping, I’ve tried outlining, I’ve tried freewriting. The results? Six drafts, all in various stages of “oh HELL no”.
We’ve been here before, we’ll be here again (unfortunately), so just fasten your seatbelts while I get things corralled, mkay?