A piece of the travertine marble with which they built The Getty Center.
There, I said it.
Antipasta said it last week when we met. She named it writer’s block.
I have to say that for me it’s a little like being a creative zombie. I’m still moving, words are still hitting the page and screen. But there’s no real life behind them.
Here’s another metaphor for you: it’s also like a crisis of faith. All the changes in the publishing industry have seen long time players dropping out or running scared. Maybe the era of the hardbound book is drawing to a close. I don’t know what to strive for anymore.
I know that you can’t think about the work as a product. You have to write what matters to you, publishing be damned, and then see if it floats. Having my first novel win me an agent and make the rounds of some pretty impressive publishers, and be rejected as “too quiet” started the slide down the slippery slope of trying to please some unknowable teacher.
Since then I’ve written a NaNoWriMo novel called Basura Canyon and worked on a memoir for more than a year. I’ve had some short pieces and photography published, but… I’m not sure whether to go back to one of these projects and give them the respect and attention they need, or to start something new.
Anyway, I’m working on getting my mojo back, and I’ve tried not to whine about it publicly too much. Those of you who have tried to recommend books to me lately know that my fussiness has extended to my reading life, too. I’ve found it really hard to get into novels lately.
Okay, so then this morning, just when I was considering whether or not to write about this on my blog, I hit PUBLISH instead of DRAFT and there you have it. I sent out a few lines to my blog subscribers.
Now it’s time to go clear my head in a Zumba class. I’m going to dance my frustrations away for an hour and get out of my head. Aren’t you glad I can’t go on and on about this?
p.s. If anyone has any ideas about how to stop this stupid inward spiral, please do tell.