December 6, 2014
I had promised myself
that I would do no writing. Sounds strange, doesn’t it? Coming from a
writer. Some writers have to force themselves to sit down and write.
Others have to force themselves not to.
For thirty days following
my book’s release, I had intended to do no writing. For months now I
have done nearly no writing. Only blog posts and interviews; tweets and
requests for reviews. I wanted to complete my media kit and compose
press releases; I wanted to post my already-written stories on a
multitude of sharing sites, and register my book with the hundreds that
offer free promos to authors. I wanted to be able to look back on my
launch and know that whatever came of it, I had done what I could to
ensure its success.
I didn’t quite make it. I broke down last
Saturday – in a very big way. I didn’t even edit, or return to
completing one of my several works in progress; I began a new novel. The
first day I wrote three thousand words, the day after that, four
thousand more. Yesterday I did nothing else and added seven thousand
words to the project; in seven days I’ve written twenty-seven thousand
words in a book that a week ago I hadn’t even conceived. Today I wrote
most of a four-thousand word short story, plus a thousand-word blog
post, plus this little one here – I simply don’t want to stop. I don’t
want to stop.
I had forgotten how easy it was, how smoothly the
words could flow and fly off my fingers, how frustrating it could be to
be hampered not by my mind but by the slow speed of my typing and the
ability of my back to tolerate being hunched for long hours over a
computer. I had forgotten how good it feels to do it, to relax and fall
into it, what it means to be working at writing instead of working at
promoting my writing.
I forced myself to forget. I didn’t want to
remember. I needed to be promoting; I didn’t need to be writing. But now
I wonder if maybe I did.