I have ideas for stories but I am not finding the love and joy I use to have for writing. I noticed this laborious feeling last year creeping in while writing my third novel. But I pushed through. Still editing.
I’m working on another novel and it’s painful to watch my start and stopping on just the prelude. In better times, I would have been three-four chapters deep by now.
I feel like I’m forcing it.
The problem may just be that my focus (college, more money at the job, more money period!) has swallowed my free-flowing fantasy-ability. I’ve been reluctant to daydream in order to solidify a concrete future.
I hate this. If I were successful in my writing in the first place, I would have continued on. Shifting gears for ‘reality’ is destroying the real me. I see the slow murder happening every time I think I want to write a few things … then decide against it. Mostly feeling tired.
It’s not writers block either. I actually have stories I want to tell and I know how I want to tell them.
It’s more like I’m physically not compelled to write them. Maybe it’s because I feel no one is reading anything I write anyway.
Maybe it’s just a matter of needing a break.
I’ll try not to force the storytelling and just pick it up later. Maybe in another week or when I’m off from work.
myJournal 