2019 was a fabulous writing year for me. I finished three manuscripts and countless rewrites. When December rolled around, I actually decided to take the month off. I've always felt like I'm not productive enough in all areas of my life, but my writing especially. That I should push myself harder, do more. But last year was the first time in my life that I felt like I accomplished something, that I had done enough. Did I truly take December off? Only kinda-sorta. I worked on book ideas, outlines, and a YA fantasy novel that I write solely for my own entertainment. But there was no internal pressure to create, to produce. It felt amazing.
I had high hopes for 2020. I knew which story ideas I wanted to turn into books. I knew which manuscripts I wanted to revise. I was doing well until the pandemic hit. I rewrote Ravenrock for the third time and was finally content with it (though, even after a book is "done," I still fiddle with it, I never actually stop fiddling with it). I knew which book I wanted to get started on writing next. Then the coronavirus happened, bringing with it all kinds of stress, anxiety, and fear. Concentrating became near impossible. I didn't really understand why I was having such a difficult time since I already worked at home and am a huge introvert. I started beating myself up and trying to force creativity, which is always a terrible idea. Finally I just let myself be.
It wasn't until last month that I was able to find my flow again. But I faced a new problem. I was writing for a world that didn't exist anymore, one that will never exist again. One where kids get to go to school, play with their friends, and don't have to wear a mask. All my story ideas, they suddenly seemed obsolete. I know they can all be predated to before the pandemic started, but it still feels weird to be writing about a time before masks and social distancing were just another part of life (was there ever such a time?). When we eventually come out of this pandemic, I don't feel like the world will go back to the way it was before--and that's a good thing! But I don't know what that new world will look like, so I'm not quite sure how to write it. I'm sure I will eventually write about the pandemic. How could I not? But it's usually easier to write about something after it's happened rather than while it's happening, at least for me.
So I've been working on stories that take place in the past, whether that past is in the U.P. in the 1920s, or some modern time just before the pandemic. It feels good to be steadily writing again. It helps that both manuscripts I'm currently working are sequels where I'm already familiar with the characters. I'm not going to push myself to finish them before the year's out. We're still in the pandemic. Police brutality and civil unrest seems to get worse with each passing day. And the presidential election is looming over all of us. I'm going to be patient and kind to myself. I look forward to one day being able to write about this time in history and to write about the new world to come. But I'd be lying if I didn't say I miss knowing what tomorrow looked like, that I didn't miss our old world, even with all its many flaws
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