December is a dark time for me as a writer. It happened last year and I thought maybe this year would be different, but so far it hasn’t been.
I just don’t want to write. I want to do anything but write. Even cleaning has suddenly become more fun than writing.
I think part of it is just needing a break from that world. I want to catch up on the books that I want to read and the movies and shows that I missed in November. And let’s not even talk about the metric ton of clothes that need to be washed. All of the stuff that got pushed aside in November comes back exponentially in December.
So, like last year, I am giving myself space. I’ve written a bit here and there. I charted the plot and filled some holes. I’ve done a little research. I read. I’ve watched TV. I’ve washed approximately 11,546,003,762,739,346,272 loads of laundry. And dried them. They’re all still waiting to be folded.
I’m baking Christmas cookies and reading The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe to my kids. I’ve decorated and hung Christmas lights. And finally starting to feel like Christmas isn’t out to get me.
And like last year, I rest in the knowledge that in January I can jump back in with fresh ideas and eyes and really get rolling.
If you don’t hear from me then, send help. The mountain of laundry probably avalanched and buried me.