It’s been a while since I’ve done any real writing. I sit down with my laptop and put forth an effort to write, but nothing much is happening.
My muse has gone missing. Haven’t heard a peep from her in months. Maybe she’s in self-isolation.
The lack of inspiration is rather inconvenient because I have two mostly-written books that I want to finish and get online.
I’m also supposed to be working on a comic strip that features two of my characters, Floyd and Essie Watson. I don’t have even one panel drawn for the strip. I can’t decide where I want to start with their story.
I’ve pretty much given up on sticking with a release date for my upcoming e-books. I keep listing dates for releases only to have to change them. I have a rough draft for both e-books, but I’m not satisfied with them. Rather than rush and put them online, I’m going to wait until I get them like I want them.
The struggle to finish the books is making me question my sanity. I mean, why did I ever think I could write books? Some authors make it look easy. It’s not easy for me. There has got to be a better way to spend my free time than trying to tell fun stories about Lizzie Chandler and the Watsons.
I could go back to sitting on my couch watching Spongebob or horror movies. With the dreams I’ve been having after watching those scary flicks, writing Once Haunted, Twice Shy should be a breeze – even with a missing muse.