I've made no bones about my extended creative hiatus. It's been a dark 12-plus months, and grief delivered a sledgehammer blow to both mind and heart.
With my creative spark effectively extinguished, my business shifted to editing. Editing requires more of an analytical mind than a creative one. I consider very carefully whether I wish to apply for or bid on a writing project. Do I even want to do it? Can I handle it? Will it overwhelm me? Do I even care? It's been easier to focus my attention on editing, to making someone else's work better. That way I don't have to be responsible for the ideas or their development. It's a break I needed.
However, time is working its magic. The spark has flickered to life.
On Sunday, I didn't feel like reading. I didn't feel painting. I was restless. I picked up my laptop computer, opened the file of my latest and languishing work-in-progress, and began to write. I added 6,000 words to that manuscript. It felt good, cathartic even.
Last night, I added 4,000 words. That felt good, too. Proper. Natural. Right.
I won't kid you or myself that this recent spurt of creative energy signals the end of that creative hiatus, but I do consider it promising. The story is coalescing, finding direction. I can think of what happens next.
I'm not writing this story for Matt. He never read what I wrote and considered my being an author of romance and fantasy as more than a little embarrassing. However, I would like to think that Matt would want me to continue to write and embarrass him, because that's what Mom does. I hope he understands.
Regardless, I am grateful that this critical, integral part of me hasn't been entirely lost. It's coming back. Whether I will regain the earlier productivity of two years ago is undertermined. I do know I must care for my psyche and nurture this delicate spark so as not to extinguish it. It's terrible to lose a piece of yourself.