I might be a little bruised, and a little sore, and a little stupider, but I'm trying to get back in the saddle with a book project I've paused since March. I originally paused it because test scoring season was beginning and I was ready to put my nose to the mindless workaday grindstone and now it's become the longest pause in writing for since, ah, college? So in ten years, I guess.
Sometimes, when I pause a project, and pause my entire fiction writing life totally, that last page or so (pg. 83 for this one) becomes this huge f'ing deal. I'll go back to it and go back to it and the new words just don't come. It's not writer's block as much as Despair that the Book Will Ever Be Done or Mean Anything and People Don't Read Anymore Anyway So Who Gives a Damn.
Which is a dark liquor to sip, indeed, but eventually I just have to remind myself of my roots, back when I had no intention or real hope of being published and it only mattered that I was having a good time and writing a story that was compelling to ME. Period.
And this new project is fun to write, indeed. A cross between literary, horror, and western, I've decided to throw down in the mining town of Red Earth, Wyoming, 1899. Where nobody can hear you scream, not even your own self-destroying self-censor.
BWAH HA HAHAHAHA!
Yeah. I'm already feeling more chipper.