I don't know why, maybe it's the summer breezes, but I'm finding it difficult to sit my butt in the chair and write. It's certainly not writer's block. I've got plenty going on inside my head, but the thought of plugging away on a story right now ... it just doesn't appeal to me.
I think maybe it's the house. Well, duh, in fact I know it is. I'm still in a new home owner zone, and I don't know how to shake it. Not sure I want to. The writing world is passing me by, and somehow - I don't care ... I know I'll catch up. But at this moment, I'm immersed in reading. All my books are now on shelves. Beautiful ones my dad built for me. Books that have not seen the light of day for years are now staring me in the face.
I'm reading Wally Lamb's classic, She's Come Undone. I'm also reading The Shack written by William Young. I'm finding myself absorbed in story, but not wanting to put my own into action. Not quite yet.
Discouraged that Televenge has not yet sold, I try to tell myself the process of selling to a major publisher takes time. That often, it's years before a bestseller is born after completion. But the long wait, the silence, doesn't make it any easier. My next book is in process, I just can't find the energy to finish it.
All I want to do is rest, read, and make great meals in my new kitchen. I've "come undone," and I don't care.
Blessings to you and yours.