An evening in which I have written nothing.

No word in my mind. Nothing under my hand, but this post.

No image tickles my head from the inside. No plot point shakes me. No character loves me. Not yet. I twiddle mental thumbs; I tap nervous feet. I’m not sure what to do with myself. The evening is almost gone. I don’t know where it went, exactly. Well, yes I do. And it wasn’t to the writing.

It’s not that I’ve wasted the time…. I’ve searched out a couple of photos that evoke the physical model for my next character. I’ve stared longingly at the tape recorder where the previous night’s first, hopeful notes landed, knowing that they’ll drive me delightfully crazy if I let them stay in the machine until the weekend. I’ve sought out the written passage I’ll share with the salon on Wednesday night–I’ve breathed someone else’s brilliant air: It was wonderful. It wasn’t mine.

Am I worried about a single idle evening? Not particularly. Am I eager to get down to the work? Hugely. Am I aware that it will take a month or two of grabbing notes out of the air, of teasing myself with characters unformed, of self-examination and questing flights for the work to reach critical mass; before I get to be swept up by the making of a world in words? Yeah yeah yeah.

Before you ask: Yes, I DO understand the importance of downtime; the refilling of the well. Idleness (relatively speaking) isn’t a bad thing. I just wouldn’t want to make a habit of it.

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