I like planning. I like being organized. I like being methodical, chronological, practical, predictable. It’s not in my DNA to wander the literary landscape without a map, without a plan. And yet this is exactly where I find myself after recently having completed my 13th novel (due for publication this December by Bella Books).
For a dozen years, I’ve never not had a novel on the go, other than a month or two break before starting the next one. And in those instances, I always knew what I was going to write next, with an outline neatly tucked away somewhere on my computer, waiting for me to get started.
Not this time.
This time I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to write next or when I might start putting ink to paper (fingers to keyboard?). Nothing is coming to me. Nothing, at the moment, is inspiring me to write an entire novel around. It’s a little scary having no parachute. Okay, forget the parachute analogy, because I’ll never jump out of a plane, so let’s say it’s scary not having a map. It means I can go in any literary direction now (or none at all) and it’s leaving me feeling a little lost, if I’m totally honest.
So instead of worrying about being adrift, I’m going to take some time to chill out. I’ll work on a few non-fiction projects that will pay a few bills. I’ll read tons. I’ll continue with the mini health kick I’m on, which means dragging my butt to the gym regularly and going for more walks or bike rides around town. I’ll poke at my backyard campfire. I’ll kiss my dogs. I’ll go out for nice dinners with my wife. And somewhere during all of these non-novel-writing activities, I’m betting inspiration will strike. Or at least, I hope so. And it will probably be when I least expect it.
In the meantime, I’m really going to try hard not to stress about having nothing tangible in the old writing hopper. I’m going to endeavour not to worry about whether I should try writing a different genre, or whether I should stop writing fiction entirely for an indefinite period until I feel I have something to say.
When I think about it, I’ve been writing for 31 straight years, including my years as a newspaper journalist and a novelist. That’s a few million words I’ve crafted. Maybe even tens of millions of words, for all I know. So it feels right to take an extended break. It feels deserved, quite frankly. And because it feels like it’s time to hit the pause button, I’m happy to follow that instinct, because there’s nothing more disheartening than a writer who’s just putting in time at the word factory.
But not to worry. If I get bored, I can always dust off the 8,000 or so words I’ve written on a time travel/mystery piece that involves an old typewriter!
