I’m always happy when the writing is going well. Some people say, when bad things happen in life, “At least you have your health.”
I say, “At least the writing is going well.”
Except when it isn’t. Then I become a crabby, not-so-safe person to have around.
I recently emerged from one of those fogs. When I’m lost in the mist, I am prone to random outbursts and existential lamentations. Mid-mist, I become convinced that some essential brain oil has changed levels—that my creative juices have ebbed so low that they can no longer be measured by any dipstick of prose. I worry that I will never again achieve the engine horsepower that pulled me through the last book.
And then, somehow, I find the rhythm of the words again. I keep chugging, and the wind picks up. And then I’m moving along.
So for now, it's smooth sailing on Book 3. Hooray!