Can you guess what today’s blog is about? Here’s a hint: it’s not Cookie Monster’s version of a dictionary filled with the letter B!
For the past three weeks, I have been in the throes of a blockage the likes of which I have never experienced before in my adult – or even childhood- life. NOOOOOO – get your minds out of the gutter and the bathroom! I have a severe case of writer’s BLOCK and it is driving me batty.
I would think this is funny – and by funny I mean hahaha funny, not “oh-shit-I’m-terrified-I’ll-never-wrte-again-funny” if I had nothing going on for the next few months; if I had time on my hands to just wait for inspiration to flow through my fingers, piped directly from my brain again.
But NO. I don’t have the luxury of time. What I do have are deadlines. 4 big ones, in fact!!! And no ideas…no inspiration…no insights. Nothing. Nada. Niente.
Even my dreams have been boring and uninspired of late. I have listened to many writers’ treatments to cure writer’s block. I’ve walked away from the laptop for a time; I’ve forced myself to sit down at it and write something, ANYTHING, just to keep my hands and fingers busy. I’ve taken a walk – too many, in fact. I’ve got shin splints. I’ve taken a nap; I’ve made enough soothing cups of tea until my teeth need to be whitened professionally, they are so stained.
I’ve read, watched tv, painted, cooked. I’ve had a manicure, pedicure, gotten my blonde hair dyed. I’ve gone grocery shopping, therapy shopping ( women will get this!) and cleaned my house until it glows like a binary nuclear assault has come. Oh, and I’ve procrastinated myself into a stupor and still – STILL – nothing.
So here’s what I’m going to do…….
Sorry, I fell asleep because I’m boring myself…. For the sake of discussion,( because, really? What else do I have to do?) how do you get through writer’s blockage if you suffer from it? And if you don’t – I hate you. Just saying.
While I wait for inspiration, at least I have a new release coming out on 3/11/16 that I can talk and write about. Here’s a little sumthin’ sumthin’ from THE VOICE OF ANGELS and the buy links if you are so inclined….please be inclined!THE VOICE OF ANGELS and the buy links if you are so inclined….please be inclined!
Love is the last thing Carly Lennox is looking for when she sets out on her new book tour. The independent, widowed author is content with a life spent writing and in raising her daughter. When newscaster Mike Woodard suggests they work on a television magazine profile based on her book, Carly’s thrilled, but guarded. His obvious desire to turn their relationship into something other than just a working one is more than she bargained for.
Mike Woodard is ambitious, and not only in his chosen profession. He wants Carly, maybe more than he’s ever wanted anything or anyone else. As he tells her, he’s a patient man. But the more they’re together, Mike realizes it isn’t simply desire beating within him. Carly Lennox is the missing piece in his life. Getting her to accept it-and him-may just be the toughest assignment he’s ever taken on.
“Now for a check on the weather. Carl?”
When the monitor light changed colors, Mike turned back to her. “Well done.”
“Thanks for being so patient. I almost lost it for a second there.”
Her beautiful mouth quirked at the corners, and his own went drought-desert dry. He swallowed and ran his suddenly sandpapered tongue across his lips.
“You know, I read parts of your book last night as prep,” he said as she stood, noticing how long and shapely her legs were under her short green skirt. “I was taken with the stories and the details in it.”
“Thanks.” She glanced down at her wristwatch and then offered her hand. The shockwave electrifying through his body at her touch staggered him. A bolt of lightning, hot, fast, and bright surged straight to his core.
What seemed like confusion clouded her eyes as she looked at him. “I-I have to go. I’ve got to be across town by nine. God only knows what the traffic’s like. Thanks again for plugging my book. Tell Sharon I’ll call her soon. Bye. And thanks, again.”
Mike watched her bolt through the studio doors and was only brought out of his musings by the director calling him back to the news desk.
For the rest of the broadcast he was distracted by thoughts of her, resulting in him flubbing some of his lines and intro’s, something he rarely-if ever-did. How compassionate and warm her face had been as she’d told her touching story; the subtle fragrance of roses surrounding her; the deep coppery sheen of her hair as the hot, bright studio lights intensified its color.
By the end of the program he vowed he’d find a way to see her again.