Nothing much, Twitter. What’s happening with YOU?

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The literary world lost an incalculable wealth of talent on March 12, 2015, when Sir Terry Pratchett left this plane of existence, although certainly he is not gone from the hearts of his fans. It may or may not surprise you to learn that erotica is not my only interest in life. Ha-ha.

According to Sir Terry, this is what I ought to have been doing. “…he had heard that writers spent all day in their dressing gowns drinking champagne. (This is, of course, absolutely true.)” That might have been a halfway decent excuse for my long absence from this blog.

Facebook asks me “What’s going on?” and Twitter wants to know “What’s happening?” Y’all would be well within your rights to go “WTF? Where HAVE you been?” I started this blog to communicate with readers, fans, and followers, and I have not held up my end. This particular blog post, while no excuse, is an attempt at explanation. I often share with you my pithy observations about the writing process, so it seemed apropos.

Some changes have occurred in my circumstances, foremost a change of day job. This has led to more free time, rather than less, although if you do the math, that’s a little worrying in regards to the future. I picked up some freelance work, which turned out to be tedious and time consuming. I think I have never wanted to write my own things as badly as when I was stuck writing according to someone else’s ideas.

But even more so, I have noticed in myself a lassitude when I sit down to write. I’m not one hundred percent certain where it comes from. I may have slipped into a little depression. Perhaps it’s the new schedule, to which I am still adjusting. I think a good portion comes from the fact that I was writing ALL THE TIME. The last thing I wanted to do when I was done was write some more.

I’ve never stopped plotting, however. In the shower, walking the dog, washing the dishes, all the places that many people fill with music to entertain themselves, I turn to Switch It OFF in my head, and sort of let the characters go. I tell the story to myself, just as I have done in some version in the quiet moments since I was a very small girl.

There is a pressure and a fear that go along with the plot, however. Pressure that I get this done and out to you? Fear that I won’t do my characters justice, that I won’t hear or understand them properly? Fear of failure, causing pressure to succeed?

Writers are all crazy, we are told. I’ve even read a theory, crackpot at best, stating that the DESIRE to create itself is slightly insane. If true, that’s fine. I have the equipment, illness and plenty of angsty bullshit.

Just lately, I’ve been itching to work. The story wants to be told. I want to tell it. I hope when it’s done, you’ll enjoy reading it. Now there’s just the small matter of writing it.

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