Today after rereading what I'd written the day before (the fun session) I had absolutely no desire to write more, couldn't think of a word to say. Very disappointing after yesterday, to say the least. I got mopey, thought I'd pull out a book and read.
"Just get over your damned self and write!" I sniped.
Faced with my own scowling visage, my fingers started clacking. I barely managed my standard three pages (and I'm interpreting that a wee bit liberally), but at least I got something on the page.
When gentle persuasion doesn't work, sweet cajoling, mild prodding—try out-and-out intimidation.
Usually when a novel is giving me such a hard time about getting words on the page, it's a sure sign that something is wrong, that I'm sending things in the wrong direction, or fighting what my characters think is best, or letting the left brain generally have too much of a say. I really don't think that's the case here. I think I've been molly-coddling myself because I haven't been well for a long stretch of time and I've just gotten in the habit of being mollyed and coddled. (Gosh, I sure hope mollyed isn't some obscure British slang for something naughty, like Bristol is.)
Sometimes we have to practice tough love with ourselves, I think. I know I do. YMMV.
Or maybe I'm finally starting to feel better and my drive is starting to reassert itself. Remains to be seen.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}