The last few weeks have been… really weird.
For the first time in my adult life, I stopped writing. Even when my kids were itty-itty-bitty I journaled. This has been—nothing.
My muse is talking to me in my sleep now.
I never meant to be gone so long. I knew my priorities had shifted, there wasn’t a choice. But in a blink, months have flown by.
Something in my psyche has changed. It’s hard to articulate exactly what, but nonetheless, something is different now.
My eyes. Oh, my eyes. They are forever tainted, forever ruined.
It’s hard to believe 2020 is finally coming to an end. I’m refraining from thinking about what 2021 will hold. Instead, I’m focusing on the past—like centuries ago past.
I fell into a blackhole.
Writing is a solitary endeavor. Um, well, it is and it isn’t – how’s that for a vague statement.
I’m not a writer who starts off with a “what if” question, or who sees a movie or reads a story and thinks about how they would do it if it were their story. There’s nothing wrong with that approach to writing. It’s just not mine.
Beta reading takes up much of my time lately. It’s a wonderful gift, being trusted to read someone else’s work and give them feedback to help shape it. Like all feedback, they don’t have to accept the suggestions, but the opportunity is there to do my best to help them.