I haven’t written in two days.
That doesn’t mean I haven’t been productive.Â It just means I haven’t worked on anything new.Â In the past two days i’ve proofread the second draft of a novella and the galleys of a novel, searched for a home for a short story, scheduled a shoot for author photos, and dug a little deeper into the Great Agent Hunt.Â I’m happy for these distractions, because soon I’ll be handing that novella off to my final pre-reader, and that means I have to dive back into two novels that I’ve been working on for the past year and continue to push me as a writer.
But I’m jonesing.Â Jonesing hard.
A couple of days without writing–without creating–and my skin starts to crawl.Â Story ideas creep into my head and demand their spot in line.Â The cover of a book makes me envious (the beautiful covers on ChiZine Publication’s books are really bad about this).Â I start to look for vacation days so I can spend gigantic chunks of time just typing.
But I can’t. There are things in the queue.Â A novella.Â Two novels.Â A few years ago, maybe even last year, I might have just busted through them and decided I was done.Â They’d either sell or they wouldn’t (hint: they wouldn’t).Â Now, I want to spend an eternity on them, crafting and carving and making them perfect.Â I don’t want to be a hack.Â I want to be a writer.
Sometimes the jones helps.Â Sometimes it doesn’t.