It’s so hard to get into the writing zone these days. I have three active novels, I’m working on and two other short stories I need to complete by March. So there’s plenty to do.
Nevertheless, our politics hangs over everything like a miasma, a thick black smoke that chokes out almost everything else. I try to block it out. I do my best not to let it own my life. But it’s always there, lurking in the background, seeping into everything.
And in this new world of inflationary pressure and “artificial intelligence” and corporations hell bent on extracting every last ounce of profit from our dried up souls, we have to work harder than ever, to just get by. Things that used to work just don’t work anymore, and there are always nine more tasks that need doing before the end of the day.
Even my own writer brain rebels, after working so hard all day long. Sometimes it’s unwilling to work hard again to create new characters and new worlds. When my writing time finally arrives at the end of the day, I am often too exhausted to get anything done. I sit there staring at the screen, type a few sentences, and then find myself falling asleep in my chair.
And yet… When I can let myself just write, when I can escape into my worlds and play for a bit, it’s a welcome release from all the drudgery, crap and garbage this world is throwing at us. When I am writing, I feel like I am really doing something useful in this world.
It’s an age old writer’s conundrum. Finding time to write, finding brain power to to do so, and then finding enough energy to be creative. And the distractions are always there, like sirens trying to lure me from my writing – the draw of the doom scroll, the pull of work demanding to be done, the call of mindless games on my phone that I can play and not have to think.
Deep breath.
Sometimes it helps to shut everything else on my computer down except for my story document. At times putting my earbuds in and playing music helps block out the world, and carries me to another better place. And writing at odd moments, when my brain isn’t ready to sabotage me, occasionally works too.
This is the story of being a writer: always trying to find new ways to do things that you used to do differently before. Always finding new stories to tell. Always and forever relearning the craft.
Maybe someday it will get easier.
Maybe someday life will be easier.