Of course, this is not comforting when there are deadlines looming, but I think I have enough time for some staring at the walls trying to figure out how this book goes.
Part of the problem with the fallow time is that it really needs to be fallow time. Which is to say, time spent doing other things--especially things involving other people--doesn't count. It takes good, old-fashioned introversion, staring at the walls and chewing the ends of my hair, a la Mr Earbrass. Well, actually, I doubt very much that Mr Earbrass did very much hair-chewing, not having very much hair. But he has a moustache. He can chew that.
Long walks count. Long drives count. Time spent at the gym does not. Apparently, there needs to be changing scenery, and things I need to pay some attention to. (Famously, after a four-day drive across country, I once sat down and wrote an entire novel, from beginning to end, in about twenty days. It's amazing what processing time is good for.)
It's something to do with the interface of conscious and subconscious mind, or left and right brain, instinct and craft, and how they have to spitball a story back and forth between the two of them to make it come together. It's, you know, part of the whole post-novel ennui thing. Writing is self-exhaustive, and when you have exhausted it, the next batch has to come from somewhere. And it's like soup: if you try to rush it, you just get crap.
In the spirit of that, I've decided to give myself the rest of the month to try to get to a point where I'm behind the pile of words again, rather than having outrun it. This is probably going to mean mad deadline racing later in the spring and in early summer, but hey, such is life. And really, I am about due for a serious introvert fit and some time in the cushion fort behind the couch, anyway.
So, here I sit, bored. Bored bored bored bored bored. And unable to focus on anything, which means more livejournal spam for you!
The bored is actually good news. Bored is like fertilizer for stories.