I somehow fell out of the writing habit about a week ago, and now I’m really facing a wall.

My darling husband, when I told him I’d need to go to France in order to keep writing the Great Canadian Novel with any sense of verisimilitude, offered to take me to Quebec City for a long weekend. It’s the closest we can get to France. I was touched.

In the meantime, I’ve staring blankly at my laptop and feeling singularly uninspired. I scribbled down notes for four (yes, 4) short stories last week, but evidently they’re not write-now stories.

I’ve gone back and done some rewriting and touch-ups and doodled some plans for future stuff to happen in various storylines, but overall, there hasn’t been much concrete production. I re-read the substantial beginnings of an urban fantasy novella about dreams versus reality and I’d love to pick it up again, except the main character’s name is Trinity. With the whole “What is the Matrix?” thing going on, no one will ever believe that I wrote half this novella six years ago. Just change the name, I hear some of you suggesting; and while on the surface that would seem to be a solution, for me (and likely many other writers) it’s impossible. The character’s name is Trinity. She opened a door in my mind one day after a long day of work and came in fully-formed, falling onto the sofa, practically asleep on her feet. It would be like asking you to change your next-door neighbour’s name after living next to her for six years.

I’d say it’s frustrating, but I don’t have the energy to feel frustrated. Forlorn, yes. But not more than that.