I have been silent for a long time, nursing my secret shame. That I am predictable. I have wanted to blog a number of times, but had nothing new to give you. Just more of the same artistic crisis I had at the start of the last book (remember my
hilarious overworked Mt Doom moment?) But here I am again, after more than 20 books, feeling the same stuff again and yet somehow still firmly believing that this time it’s unique, special, different. This time I really have lost my mojo. Reeeeeeeally!
Maybe it’s because I’m going back to the magic stuff, back to worlds where people can make corn-dollies come to life and have premonitions of dragons. This used to be my material but now I’m afraid of it. I stand back and look at it, feint left, feint right, back off, go to bed for a while and imagine winning an Endeavour prize home. I swear to you, it feels like I have forgotten the lyrics to a song I’ve known my whole life. I sit down to write and all I manage is weird, stilted dialogue and ham-fisted transitions.
Problem is, though, I have to write. This is not a time to not be writing, and this has nothing to do with a deadline. I wake up every morning between 5 and 5.30, my traditional writing time, with a burst of adrenaline to my heart. My body is telling me to get up and write: it has actually become a physiological need.
My husband is fond of saying to me, “What would you tell one of your students?” Well, let me just say that being the teacher means you don’t have to listen to any advice ever especially your own (and especially when your own has always been delivered in an annoyingly calm and practical way that borders on patronising).
So here I am, in a holding pattern. Repeating myself.