Friday, December 6, 2013


I think my imagine gland has been overused to the point that it lies limp as a wrung-out dishrag at the side of my wordsmithing anvil.  Attempts at new work, editing of drafts, and even trying to write a letter (yes, I still write letters!) seems nearly impossible. The words I produce seem leaden, the phrasing awkward, poor, and downright pedestrian. I struggle, I type, I try to THINK and what comes out is a pathetic dribble, as if my creative prostate has swollen to the size of Texas.  Drip, drip, drip come the words, slow and difficult despite the tremendous pressure I must apply to force them out.

That's how I felt for three days, worried that I'd worn out my creative machine in that imposing and demanding NaNoWriMo challenge last month.  Did I use the energy that might have given birth to a hundred decent ideas in the process?  Had I wasted the psychic energy on a rambling draft of no particular interest to anyone?

Worse, my conservation bug-a-bear, my do-not-waste-your-words ethic impels me to finish the NaNoWriMo thing regardless of its value. "Do the research" my brain says. "Patch up the plot gaps" my editor brain tells me. "Work out the plot to a sensible conclusion" my perfectionist nature insists. "Finish what you start" and "You can't get up from the table until you clean your plate!"  wage war with my demanding ADD side.  Damn my depression era parents for cursing me with their frugality and Protestant ethic and all those nanny teachers who made me this way!

Fifty thousand words sit on my desktop and scream for editing. The task is daunting; an immense mountain of words that is not reasonable to attempt.  But do I have a choice? Did I ever have a choice?

Instead I finished a couple of short stories and started a new one while I think about it.


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