I finished my last book (number 12, but who the hell's counting, right?) last December. Since then, I've completed one short story (which I entered in the Monstrosities of the Midway contest and thought turned out pretty well after verging on being sent to the scrap heap) and about twenty pages of a not-even-false-start novel. That's it. About thirty pages of fiction for a writer who normally writes five pages a day (at least when invested in a novel, which is about 80% of a normal writing year). I've thought about it from many angles, trying to decide what's up so far in 2012, and have come up with the basic conclusion that I've written a an inordinate amount in the last ten years (since graduating from St. Olaf College, in fact) and have generated, on average, nearly one novel a year.
That's a pretty crazy stat, especially if you're the kind of writer that likes to experiment with genre and form and who's not interested in turning out the same pre-stamped formula (whatever that formula may be). Writing ten books in ten years is like falling down ten different magical rabbit holes-after a while even a crazy man gets dizzy.
So I've tried to be kind to my writerly self (and hey, Noah and I haven't missed an episode of our weekly rom-com comedic review podcast When Harry Met Fatty since we started nearly forty weeks ago!) and have chalked it up to novelist burn out.
But...no more! June is here and, to me, summer in MN is about hiding away from the terrible sun (RA!) and sitting next to your roaring window AC unit and pounding on a keyboard like it's filled with bees (but the kind of bees whose sting brings small little jolts of reward and goodness) while your cat meows at you to give up and play some ribbon.
So yes, I am starting from scratch and again I shall be born anew and, lo, THIRTEEN shall be upon us!