Because I hate, and loathe, and despise, every. single. bloody.thing. I’ve. ever. written.
I’m deeply in the throes of ennui, Gentle Reader, and with ennui comes hate, oozing black hate that seeps over everything and taints it all with its muck. A hate so intense, so fierce, that, while reading the start of one of my novels, I actually rolled my eyes–rolled my eyes!–at something I had written.
That kind of hate. The darkest, blackest, fiercest hate that can only come for one’s own writing when one is In A Funk.
Not to say that I’m not writing. I am. I wrote four pages yesterday on the Austen/Gaskell Project. I have been blogging. I have been doing every kind of writing except the writing that I want to be doing, which is working on A Project. I miss it, Gentle Reader. I miss writing every morning. But when I sat down this morning to compose, I hated everything I looked at.
Start something new? Yes, I believe I must. I have to break through this wall as quickly as possible because writing is a muscle: the longer you go without exercising it, the harder it gets to do so, like playing a musical instrument. When This Humble Author played music in her youth–Lo, these many years past!–she was told that for every day you miss practicing, it takes two days to make up for it: one to get you to where you were, and one to move you past.
If that’s the case with writing, I fear I will never catch up again.