I didn’t write a single word in November. “No big deal,” you say. But in writing circles, November is like two-a-day practices during football training camp. November is National Novel Writer Month. A frenzied dash to spew words on a page. Any words. As long as you get 50,000 consecutive words that make any kind of sense and tell a story, no matter how lame it may be.
I wrote zero.
It’s not that I didn’t want to. I couldn’t.
You see, I’m two-thirds of the way through a story now, and my muse has abandoned me. I don’t usually freak out over writer’s block. The words come and go when they will. But most days, I can at least force out a few paragraphs worthy of deleting from my laptop. I haven’t added one word to this story in more than two months.
Shame too. This story has it all. A hero, a villain, a double-agent, murder, intrigue, drugs, politics, back-stabbing co-workers, cops, robbers, drug dealers, technology, plot twists, lies, love, sex, hints of lesbianism, lions, tigers, and bears.
The hero was just about to find the crucial piece of evidence that would send him on his sprint to the finish when my hussy of a muse walked out the door. She has left me to my own devices to solve this mystery, and I have no clue: no smoking gun, no deep throat, no documents through the transom. Not even a cryptic dream where Elvis karate chops treasure chest of Scoobie Snacks and finds the mask Old Man Swanson was using to scare people away from the amusement park so he could buy the land for cheap and turn it into pot emporium.
So, what’s a writer to do? Well, not write . . . again.