Well, it’s decided, I will start working on my next book before November starts. It’s time. I’ve been feeling it for a while now. The emptiness of not having any creative-intellectual goal in my day-to-day (besides this blog, of course); the extreme procrastination on some days; the loss of being able to generate new ideas on demand…
I’m a different beast once I’m in writing mode. Days are for working, nights are for writing, everything in between gets organized and fit into a schedule. There’s practically no slack time; and when there’s downtime planned, it’s totally worth it because you know you only get 1 or 2 of those a week.
Now comes the hard part: Do I dive into my old writing notes and find a pre-established story to bring to life, or do I start from scratch and birth a new-never before worked on concept?
No matter what the case may be, I’m not worried because I have a solid month, month and half to get hit by muse lighting or give a hell lotta loving to one of my old story ideas.
Right now, it’s very exciting. Give it a couple of days, and it will become depressive. Give it even more days, and it becomes work. A couple of months in, you’ll be asking yourself why do you keep suffering through yet another book (the third) if you know how wearisome it will get.
You already know the answer:
It’s one of the few things in life that brings you happiness, it’s your mountain to climb, the good kind of aggravation, the only one you are willing to tolerate because it depends on proving and bettering yourself with every sentence you forge.