So something happened to me last month: I lost my mojo. I couldn’t write. I couldn’t edit. I second guessed everything that I did. I was convinced that I just had to work harder, because isn’t that the way that you get through life? Just work harder? Study more, put in more hours, get up earlier, stay up later, whatever. Just work harder.
But it didn’t seem to make a difference. My brain short-circuited, and shaking my fist at it didn’t seem to help. I felt like I was watching everything disintegrate. Writers write. I’m not just a dabbler; I’m a writer. It’s as much a part of me as my blood type. So if writer’s write, and I can’t…then what am I?
I’m too young for an existential crisis. I was simply burnt out. I have no idea what finally switched the switch tonight (after a month, no joke!), but I just breezed through eight chapters of editing like it ain’t no thang. And that’s pretty sweet.
I’m back, baby. Booya!
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