Languishing. Now there’s a good word for an author who has hit the wall. In fact, it’s almost perfect! That’s where I am, today, as far as fiction is concerned.
To be or become weak or feeble; lose strength or vigour.
To exist or continue in miserable or disheartening conditions.
To remain unattended or be neglected.
To become downcast or pine away in longing.
To affect a wistful or languid air, especially in order to gain sympathy.
Fine, let’s be clear right away: number 5 isn’t what I’m about, today.
Number 1. Yes. That’s accurate. I have no energy to be creative, to let my imagination do anything.
Number 2. Now that’s a natural consequence of knowing that I have a novel that needs to be continued. And there’s a novelette that’s just getting off the ground, and might might even turn into a novella.
Number 3. Well, that isn’t actually wrong. My spark, my imagination has run off someplace and left me stranded, unable to work.
Number 4. True enough. And it begs the question: where do our characters go when we’re not looking? Do they slink off and do things they’d rather do? Have they decided that we’ve been entirely too unfair, putting them through the mill just to entertain ourselves, without any regard for their feelings? Now there’s a thought. I guess it’s related the old riddle of the tree falling in a forest with no witnesses. I wonder if they go off and party, or maybe just grab some downtime. Can you imagine it? Maybe our characters all get together in the local Fictional Characters Café and compare notes on the latest trials they’ve been put through. I guess the ones who would be least popular with the rest would be those from erotic novels. I doubt that those who have just been through a meatgrinder battle would be so envied, anyway.
Tomorrow’s another day…
There’s a really stupid remark! How can it be otherwise? Still, I guess we all know what the spirit behind the phrase is. Insufferable, or maybe plaintive, or even self-deluding optimism. It’s our way of kicking ourselves soundly and saying that everything will come right in the end. Unless it doesn’t, of course. I blame fairy tales. We were conditioned from a very early age to expect a happy ending. Then we need to believe in it. After all, why would we do anything if we didn’t? So, I’ll suck it up, believe the dream, and assume that tomorrow will see me suitably reinvigorated, at least as far as writing’s concerned. Besides, just how many clichés can I inflict on myself without my head exploding?
So, until tomorrow…