March 31, 2022

8:09 AM

I don’t really do writer’s block. I think I’ve written enough books to where if it’s just a matter of putting words on a page, I can put words on a page. They will be terrible, terrible words, but I can fill a page. What’s really getting my goat these days is just time. I simply have no time.

In the old days, I would have scoffed at anyone who said I just don’t have time to write. As my buddy Forrest related to me in a story once, If it’s important enough to you, you’ll find the time. And I suppose that’s true. It’s not like I’m not trying to make the time. It’s just that after a long day of work followed by toddler and baby time, it’s hard to keep your mind awake once the house quiets down–especially when you know you’re going to be right back up and at it at 3:00 a.m.

This past month, I’ve tried so many nights to sit down and write, and I’ve found that after a few hundred words, my brain starts to turn off. Or it starts to mutter we should be sleeping over and over again. And you know what? It’s right. I should be sleeping.

Out of the corner of her eye, Cynthia saw the woman tense up. She probably wasn’t used to being spoken to with anything other than the utmost respect and reverence. It was a common trait of those who could afford the services of the Harland Clinic—they believed their wealth and influence commanded respect. 

And in some circles, it did.

But not in Cynthia’s circles.

Not in the glassy wet streets of Umbra, California.

There, the word elite meant something completely different.

All this is to say I’m sorry if I scoffed at you for “not having the time” to write. I suppose this is my karmic payback for saying “if it were important, you’d find a way.” Well, it’s important to me, and I haven’t found a way to write more than a few paragraphs without dozing off.

Still, progress is progress, and I’m happy to be writing again.

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