I've been writing books for years, and the stories and the motivation have always been there, unquestioned, just there. I relied on my ability to put ideas together, talk to my muse about character and plot development, and write what came to mind to fill in the details. My editors and readers have told me for years that they love the innovative twists in my books and that I create vivid and believable characters.
I usually write in the fall and winter, because in the spring and summer I spend a lot more time outdoors with my horse and in my garden, so I rarely sit down to create a new plot. However, I do take notes and string them together into a story when the days get shorter and the weather gets cold.
I started my latest work in progress in January 2024, and I haven't gotten past 40,000 words yet. Yes, the book is coming along in bits and pieces, and the adjustments I have made are good, but I still lack the spirit that has carried me through other stories and kept me going. I've devoted too much time to other hobbies, like reading and long walks in the woods, so I've fallen behind and can't get into the mood to write. I sit down, read what I have written so far and then... Some days a few scenes come to me and I write them down because writing something is better than writing nothing. I wouldn't call that progress in the true sense of the word. I would like to take a long vacation with the simple project of getting the book over the finish line. I don't see it yet.
If you as an author, editor or reader have any ideas for me on how to get back in the mood and find the push to write more often, I'd love to read them.
Here's a short excerpt from the last book I published, Dirty Work.
Nicolas tries to get a hold of the criminal who beat him before...
Nicolas’s world was reduced to a single goal—to catch Kruskov before he could get away again. He raced down the fire escape, taking two steps at a time and leaping over the railing at the end, completely focused on the silhouette that was the fence on the run. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the police officers. Their guns shone in the dim light of the streetlamps. Nicolas knew that no police officer would fire a shot when another one was in hot pursuit. The risk of shooting a colleague was far too high, and he was grateful that none of the young men in uniform were so high on adrenaline that they forgot that basic safety rule.
The officers cut off Kruskov’s route, leaving him with only one option—a ramshackle building that had once been built for business and law offices, but had long since fallen into disrepair. The fence pushed against the dilapidated metal door, kicked it open as he ran, and disappeared inside.
“See if there are other exits!” Nicolas shouted to the officers. “Don’t let him get away!” Then he was inside, breathing heavily, his legs quivering with strain. Streetlight fell through the broken windows, illuminating the scene. Homeless people had gathered the remaining furniture to live in, but also to light small fires. The stench of soot and burned plastic filled the air. To the left, Kruskov stumbled over something lying on the floor, and when he regained his footing, Nicolas was already on top of him, crashing with him into a pile of planks, crumbled partitions, and broken chairs. Kruskov grunted as Nicolas’s heavy body pinned him into the rubble, but tried to grab a leg of a stool to use as a weapon. They struggled for control of it, and Kruskov brought his knees up, pushing and shoving Nicolas backward. He lost the weapon but got back on his feet.
Nicolas grabbed Kruskov’s legs and forced the thug back to the ground. Kruskov raised his right leg and kicked back, aiming for Nicolas’s face, but hit his shoulder instead. Free again, he stumbled forward, away from his enemy. Nicolas lunged, but the distance was too great. Out of the rubble and back on his feet, Nicolas forced his legs to run again. Kruskov saw him coming and took a stance. His lips were skinned back from his teeth in a fierce snarl. This time Nicolas knew what to expect. He was fired with anger, determined not to be beaten again. As Kruskov swung his fist for a hook, Nicolas turned into the move and threw the thug over his shoulder, letting him crash to the ground only to be above him, pounding his fists into the man’s face and not giving him a chance to beat back.
It took Nicolas several seconds to see that Kruskov was unconscious. The fence’s head lolled to the side, his eyes closed. His face was battered and would feature all colors of the rainbow within a few hours. Blood trickled down from his nose and a wound to his cheekbone. Grimly satisfied, Nicolas sat back on his heels and wiped his nose. The dark room turned around him, and he waited a minute until he got up again.
From behind him, two officers entered through the back door or a broken window. He heard their careful footsteps crunch on the soiled floor. “Sir? Are you okay?”
“He’s out…out cold.” Nicolas put his hands on his thighs and took deep breaths. His right shoulder hurt where the heavy boot had hit him, but he enjoyed more than suffered the pain. “I…I’ll take him in for interrogation.”
“Are you all right?” Officer Gardner asked worriedly. “Did he hurt you?”
“He needs the medic,” Nicolas replied as he straightened. He judged from Gardner’s expression that he didn’t look like the victorious hero he felt he was. “I’m okay.”
* * *
1 comment:
I hear you about losing your inner push, Ann. For me, the solution is simply to write... no matter how crappy the stuff is that comes out. When I don't write, I'm not only depressed, I'm anxious. Writing for me is your long walks in the woods, reading, etc. It's the only way I know how to relax.
Last July, I didn't write for three weeks, but that was because I had a case of norovirus from hell. I couldn't walk to the bathroom, I had to crawl, that's how sick I was. When the worst finally passed and I could more or less function, I started getting anxious about not writing. Once I sat my butt down in the chair in front of my computer, I started to relax again. :)
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