When uninspired, do research on the last project that interested you.
Which was frustrating on its own, because what I was researching didn’t appear to exist. Until I made myself step outside the train of thought, think tangentially, followed a different route, and discovered that it isn’t called what I logically expected it to be called.
Also figured out that I’m going to have to set this book in Canada. Not a bad thing; just that unlike most of my other books, the idea for this one set itself in the US from the get-go. I can’t find enough information about the topic to comfortably set it in the States, though, so Canada it is.
Also, there is no chocolate in the house. This is ungood.
I cannot for the life of me settle down to work on something today. Part of my problem is that I’m not immediately in the middle of a project. And since there’s nothing I have to work in, I get to choose what I’d like to work on, and despite the list of in-progress-at-various-stages novels/novellas and so forth, none of them are calling me. I also can’t pick music to listen to, so I’ve just set my whole collection of MP3s on shuffle. Except now I’m hearing things I don’t recognise and hovering my cursor over the icon of the player to see what it is.
Another more significant part of the problem, I suspect, is that I’m very much in limbo. I’m waiting for word on the pregnancy book. I’m waiting for the editorial letter and first set of edits addressing the hearthcraft book. I’m waiting for the go-ahead from the gaming company to continue developing content. I’m waiting for the publisher for whom I’m doing the freelance manuscript reviews to finish moving and restart operations again.
I wonder if I’m somewhat burnt out. I want to be working on something, I do, because I feel irritated and useless when I’m not. I don’t like feeling irritated, because then when the day is over I feel very nasty about myself because I haven’t accomplished or advanced anything. It’s a stupid, stupid work ethic thing and I can’t shake it.
What I want to do is play the 7/8 again. I don’t want this instrument to eat my brain when I could be using those grey cells for something else. I spent much too much time searching for new hard cases that would fit a 7/8 on the internet this morning. (My old hard case is cracked and weighs a tonne, and my current large 4/4 doesn’t even fill it entirely; a 7/8 would rattle around dangerously in it, beyond what extra padding could do.) I experimented with possible names for it during one of my many wakeful moments last night. Nothing yet. This doesn’t indicate anything yet beyond the fact that it didn’t steal my soul the moment I played it.
I don’t feel like reading, either. Grr, grr, grr.
Michelle West writes an excellent parallel between writing books and mothering here.
A belated Mother’s Day to all the moms out there. My day began very early, waking up with a jump at the crash made by a small boy dropping a play tea set on the floor next to the bed ( “Oh hi, Mama, I making you tea!”), moved through brunch with the Preston-LeBlanc clan (complete with smoked salmon, mimosas, a heaping bowl of fresh strawberries, and waffles), and ended with an afternoon with HRH’s parents and excellent steak.