Yesterday, for the first time in a long time, I tried to write, or actually to plot. It has been so long, I feel completely disconnected from anything story-related, and I decided re-plotting Seldom’s story might freshen it in my mind and re-energize the project. I packed pens, highlighters, and index cards, and parked myself on a stool at the computer bar in the college’s rotunda.
I got nutten.
Today’s mission: not to freak out.
Confession: I don’t even want to write. I want to play with Illustrator’s gradient mesh tool. I want to draw kickboard thumbnails. I want to sit on the sofa watching Frasier on Netflix and cuddling my critters. I want to visit my family. I want to call some friends from whom I can feel myself growing apart because there is no time for relationships besides the ones within elbow range. I kind of even want to dust and go on cobweb patrol around the house.
But I don’t want to write, much. I want to want to write, but…I don’t actually want to write.
So here’s the point it’s taken me three days to find: I don’t know what I am anymore. Ironic, considering one of the major reasons I decided to return to school was to figure that out, only to learn I already knew but now perhaps I’ve changed into someone I don’t know.
My mind refused to produce. The workers in the basement responded to the office memo with one of their own. “We do pictures now, not words.” Or something. At any rate, no plot.
I could dig out my old plot cards, outline, and etc., but I doubt reading old material will re-energize this tale or prime the pump for new story.
Now I wonder. Do I have to start over? Do I have to accrue another million words of crap before I start producing decent material again?
Do I have that in me?
I’m afraid I don’t.
Oh, and that mission? To not freak out? An abysmal failure.