Posted by: Sarah | August 17, 2009

Creativity Is A Bitch

(or, Letting That Little Cigar-Smoking Dwarf In The Bowler Hat Run the Show)

I was all excited a few weeks ago when I realized I could possibly be done with my novel by the end of the year.

Since then, I’ve not written a word.  I can’t seem to get my final scene moving, no matter how much butt-glue I apply.  The cursor mocks me.

I do wonder how much of this is because I’m still not at the right level for my thyroid meds and I have noticed a BIG difference mentally since they changed the drugs.  I’m more scattered, I’m less attentive.  But that’s not really a good excuse.  After all, I wrote most of this book while I was at my lowest, health-wise.  But, I did get used to being better this past year and it’s far more sudden this time.  I’m also sleeping like the dead and waking up just as tired as when I went to sleep.  Not good.

So, I keep feeling like I’m stuck in a river paddling, but getting nowhere.

Also, my novel seems utterly unoriginal and uncreative at the moment.   I’m almost to the point where I’m considering quitting writing.  After all, if I think I suck, how can convince an editor or an agent that I rock?  But is that a genuine criticism, or my growing depression via lack of hormones talking?

To explain the subtitle:  everyone has an inner critic.  Mine is a cigar-smoking, short man in a kelley green bowler hat and a red vest.  He looks a bit like a leprechaun, but is much meaner and has no put of gold.

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