Welcoming in 2024 with Writer’s Block

Yeah. I’ve welcomed in 2024 with the dreaded writer’s block.

If I believed in devilish karma, I’d say it was payback for taking my first true sabbatical since starting to write fictional literary erotica three years ago. 2023 hadn’t been a terrible year of writing by any stretch, but I had overextended myself, and as a result left incomplete projects and efforts strewn on the floor around me. These children of mine, feeling orphaned and unwanted, wanted their due. Wanted their time to shine, all glittery and bright, like a child in their first holiday play.

At first, they were patient, peaceful possibilities, huddled around like small school children ready for storytime and a treat. They would be next, they felt, when it’s their turn.

When storytime ended, and the next one didn’t come from them, they felt ignored. Betrayed. Their moods evolved into tentacled tantrums, tugging like tree roots to drag me onto the floor with them and hold me there. See the world through their eyes.

Love me! I felt them whisper.

Soon, I whispered back. But soon had been uttered too many times to retain credibility.

I sense that they, in part, were resentful of a single story that I put so much focus on. The golden child, as it were. I had wanted to submit it for a well-known anthology series that was and is a great source of inspiration, and which I’d placed on a pedestal.

You know. It’s that special feeling you get when you are considered worthy by someone I idolized. That had happened in the previous year, and I was flabbergasted when it did! But, in the back of my mind, I felt that it was merely a stroke of luck. For lightning to strike twice would convince me that I may actually have a smidge of talent at this. A start over one breast was really cool. A star over both? NOW we’re takin’!

That second story was accepted in December. I’d returned from sabbatical by then, with grand plans of swooping up all of my now-orphans, celebrate them, and one by one, breath fulfilling life into each. Throughout 2024, they would fly proudly from the nest, confident and poised to soar into the heavens while the sun glistened off of their strong, resilient bodies.

But I delayed once again to bask in the glow of idol acceptance. And that, THAT is when they lost patience and cast the evil writer’s block curse on me.

I wrote it off as holiday distractions. After all, I thought, how much writing did I really expect to do over the holidays, what with family and friends and activities to indulge in.

It’ll come back, I thought. These stories, they LOVE me!

It didn’t. I used some of my normal methods to free my mind up. Didn’t work. The tempting bottle of Writer’s Tears I’d been gifted loomed in the shadows, calling my name. I didn’t feel worthy of it.

Writer’s Tears are for WRITERS, I thought. Your not really a writer. Not yet.

I looked at my orphans. It wasn’t time to toss them into the hearth, was it? They weren’t misguided, or unloved, or trying to shove me into an oubliette from which I’d never be heard of again, were they?

I dug deep. Reached for my muses with humility. Was patient with myself. Waited.

The first came, an amazing, encouraging editor who provided a spark. Then the second, in the form of another muse who was changing direction in their creation path while sharing the adventure. And lastly, I went back to stories and podcasts than infused my mind with seeds of inspiration.

I reach to my brood, cradled one to my laptop, and fed it those seeds. It flourished. I flourished. And I began to write once more.