My writing has been sluggish of late. I’m putting the time in, doing a lot of staring at sparsely populated pages, outlining when the pantsing doesn’t work, and pantsing when the outlining fizzles to ash. The result? Some days seven hundred words, some days five hundred words, some days a paltry couple of hundred–and I’m grateful for each and every one of those two hundred, let me tell you.
I try not to worry about it too much, because, hey, at least I’m spitting something out. In the past, I’d have been starting to wonder if it was time to change my writing space (add a hammock, perhaps), dive into another book on craft, or maybe take a break and let the ideas regenerate. Yes, well, we all know how those strategies turn out, don’t we? Not that there isn’t a time and place for hammocking, learning and percolating, but when I’m mid-project, they tend to be code for “Hey, I know! Let’s procrastinate! Wouldn’t that be fun?”
So, my new strategy is to keep on keeping on. Instead of succumbing to the urge to skive off or beating myself mercilessly with the Oh-My-God-You-Suck stick, I’m planting my butt in the chair and my fingers on the keyboard, and keeping them there, however drecky the resulting output. Or, in the immortal words of Chumbawamba:
And, for the record, tonight it’s a whiskey drink. Very unusual for me, but what can I say? We ran out of red wine, and my perseverance during this creative drought will only take me so far without a modest drop of encouragement.
But, speaking of changing writing spaces. I’m pretty darned sure that if I lived in one of these converted water towers, I’d never whinge about writing output again. Ever.