I haven’t written anything in anger for over a week. I’m only midway through the revised opening to my novel at the moment, and am vaguely thinking about rejigging a screenplay I got part-way through last year. The reason for my lack of progress is simple – I’m not enthused and I’m not excited, and this would be bound to come across in my writing. So until I rediscover my mojo, I’m not going to worry about it. Even these daily blog posts seem like a real effort at the moment.
It’s not like I don’t have ideas, though. I have loads of them. It’s knowing that I’m aware of exactly how to pull them off that’s the problem. I do get this lack of inspiration occasionally, and whenever it happens it’s rather annoying. It’s partly a confidence thing, partly a self-doubt thing, and at the moment when I think about it my head starts to feel really heavy. It’s not helping that I’m tired and my stammer is awful at the moment (if you’re a word that starts with a vowel, you can fuck off). But maybe it’s also to do with how I can see the end of the year not so far away in the distance, and know that it’s unlikely I’m going to fulfil my New Year’s Resolution of getting an agent by the end of 2010.
On the other hand, though, if I nail this rewrite I think I have a fairly decent prospect of landing one, so I’m wondering whether my lack of progress is down to some deep-seated psychological crap that means I’m my own worst enemy. Sigh. The motivation’ll come back eventually. It will. It has to.