This time last year I had started my novel. The one I wrote in 4 months. This year I’m doing nothing, barely dragging myself to the computer to write a blog post. So I guess that answers the question about if my writing is seasonal.
There is no doubting that it is uncomfortable to sit down at a heat-generating computer in the middle of summer, but summer finished over a month ago now and I’m currently wearing a jumper. There must be another reason why I’m not writing.
I think the thing that gets me writing is faith. Faith that someone will want to read it once I’ve finished. I’m sorely lacking in faith at the moment. I floated one of my story ideas past a work colleague the other day. He clearly thought it was silly. I know he was a test market of just one, but I can’t help but thinking maybe I am the only person interested in my novel ideas?
I know the world is a big place, so there is a good chance I could find others who enjoy what I enjoy, but I think the market is small. That’s killing my faith. And it is so easy to lose myself in my imagination, uncovering stories while sitting on the lounge, or staring out the window on the bus, or in particularly boring meetings at work, so I’ll never have to go without them.
If I thought the world might miss out by not getting to share my stories I might be more motivated to write them down. I think that explains why I did exactly zero words this week.