the witching hours
I am waking up in the middle of the night as ideas leak out of my mind. (I can almost feel an ooze dripping from my ears.) I am convinced it is a bi-product of working far too long hours during the day, coming home exhausted each day, and for a few weeks now, uninspired to write during my normal writing time on a weekend in full recovery mode from the week that's been. There are certainly parts of the 'secondment' role I enjoy immensely, I just don't think my body is cut out to push itself though work days of teenage hours in length. This particular fire horse is a precious thoroughbred not a pack filly harnessed to an overloaded wagon.
I do not feel right because the words have not come in anything other than a deep feed starved of nutrients. The odd micro-story appears from nowhere, with my creative leaning desperate to free itself from its shackles. The words below slipped out of me during the witching hours a few nights ago.
"Not much for candles. Got a lot of them as birthday gifts from male friends when I was younger (read: they had no clue what to purchase and a giant phallic symbol seemed the Obvious choice as a advertising tool). Have a small number now only because they smell nice. Candles that is."
I guess it is better that something which plays with words escapes from my head than nothing at all. I would feel relieved if my long-form writing mojo returned to me some time soon. I also think every book I write has a different rhythm to it. I seem to reach a stalling point at different times in the process with each one. For example, my book - the Recidivist - took well into the 100th page before I felt I was going anywhere with the plot. In contrast, the book I'm writing now - the Peithosian Gift (working title) - the first 100 pages seem to write themselves and I find I cannot face the screen just when the plot is thickening so to speak. It's been two weeks since I set my fingers sore from typing too much.
Time to sweep away the procrastination blues.