On a good day, I can write four to six thousand words on a book. If I wrote that amount every day, I’d be done with a novel within three weeks. So…what’s the damn problem?
I think the main problem that most writers struggle with is that we want to deliver only the best possible lines we can think of. It’s easy to write some bla bla on a topic that doesn’t really interest us. But when it comes down to what we love to do—create amazing stories that everyone can lose themselves in—we get picky. Picky in the way that we are afraid our books could only be nice, maybe well written, but not awesome and outstanding in the end.
As a writer I learned that I’m going through a multitude of moods within a certain span of time. I’m not talking about the various moods now, but it all boils down to the fact that I’m on a roll for about five to eight days, then I hit a black hole where there seems to exist no creativity at all. To get out of that hole again takes about three weeks. Anything I’d write in that time would feel wrong for me, and forced. I can’t do that to my beloved story.
So here’s the thing: I write non-stop for a week, and then spend three weeks banging my head on the keyboard, checking my emails and Facebook with an unhealthy frequency, update my playlist with songs that I’m only going to delete later again anyway, play fucking Bejeweled or watch some BBT, because that’s my rhythm. My way back out of the black hole. I don’t know for sure, but I guess it’s a brain thing. How I tick, you know.
Or, it could just be that the little fairy, who sits on my shoulder and whispers all these adventures in my ear has better things to do, three weeks of a month…