I’m really startin’ to hate this number, 330. If it had a colon between the threes, and it was a workday, I wouldn’t mind it–I’d welcome it, in fact. If both a “+” and a “$” sat before the first three, I’d be smiling. Heck, if a dash held the space between the threes, I’d be cool with that too. But its just “330”. And that’s a number that challenges and taunts me, a number I can’t seem to get past: its the page I’m on, or stuck on and have been laboring over, editing and revising, staring at and rethinking, for…far…too…long.
Page 330 of The Hidden, that’s where I’m stranded.
The past month or more of weekends, for at least two main reasons, I haven’t been able to write. One weekend I was out of town, the others, I was either busy, or, I was out of the zone. No, not just “out” of the zone, but I’ve been blasted so flippin’ far away from the zone that I’ve started to wonder if I’ll ever find that happy, seemingly mystical place again. It goes beyond writer’s block, and I don’t like it, at all. Even if you’re not a person who loves to write and have experienced anything like this, you know just how “uncomfortable” it feels. I’ve had to back-burner my art for a bit, but I’m working to get back to where I want and need to be. This delays my plans, my dreams, even more, but I am not giving up.
In the meanwhile, I’m reviewing and reconsidering my plans and options for publication…the goal is potentially closer than I realized.