I came across a recent post, Not Writing, Just Being, on Sara Crowley's A Salted blog today.
Gosh it strikes a chord. "I cross one thing off and add two or three" describes perfectly where I've been for weeks. Little or no writing being done, lots of everything muscling in instead. It's just incredible how much family/work/house stuff rushes in to fill the time supposedly set aside for writing. "I haven't written for a few weeks. I should never stop, stopping fucks me up" : that's just it exactly. As is "Whispering somewhere in me is the idea that maybe I just shouldn't have started." And, well, best you just go and read what Sara has to say.
Posts like Sara's are fantastically reassuring. It's not just me. It's the same for everyone. Of course. I'm willing to bet most writers are the same : guerilla writers, appearing briefly from the undergrowth of normal life to bash out a few sentences, a few words even, before having to hurry away, minds still blazing with unrealised ideas. Never finding the time for a proper, full-on assault, always in danger of being wiped out.
Today I just ignored some of the stuff that needs doing - I swear it's all sent by a shadowy group of religious zealots intent on preventing any more works of art from being created - and got back to working on Engn, the "next novel". Didn't do a vast amount - just some editing on the opening chapter - but still it felt wonderful.
Not writing soon becomes a habit. But so does writing. It's easy to forget that.