Over the last couple of months I've had a pretty hard time getting back into the mechanics of the writing process. I always suffer from this kind of creative block immediately after I hand in a novel, and to be honest the last two or three years have been insane - fitting in 2,000 to 5,000 words a day between the day job and family commitments. I think something broke inside me and I fell out of love with writing.
But the last couple of days have seen me easing my way back into the routine of working on the novel every evening. Last night I did 600 words; tonight I did 1,200. Yeah, it's nowhere near the wordcount I've been maintaining over the last few years, but that kind of pressure put me in hospital. I'm happier writing at a slower pace, just letting it come rather than forcing it because I'm on a deadline. The finished book will probably be no better in terms of quality than the last few books I wrote, but I'll have a saner outlook on the world as I'm writing it.
Writing has less of a hold on me now than it has done over the past decade. I still need it, still enjoy it, but I'm no longer prepared to make the sacrifices I did in the past.
I'm still in love with writing, but now it's a different kind of love, one that's less demanding - a relationship I can enjoy on my own terms.
To celebrate this, here's a picture of an albino ape with a unicorn horn.
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