It’s Labor Day, woo-hoo (insert dry sarcasm). Honestly, I’ve been a bum all summer — not really hustling on my writing because it’s summer! Let’s go swimming! Let’s drink beer with the neighbors at five o’clock. Let’s not write because the kids are constantly swarming around me like crazed wasps. But now it’s September. And my kids are back in school and I’ve finally returned to my manuscript only to wallow in the despair that is the plot that doesn’t make sense anymore.
Yup. I reread my novel for the 90th time and I’m not so sure the mystery functions. The gears are there, but they’re mismatched and dry and not really moving together. So I need to tinker with the story until everything is in working order. Always a fun time. God! Why is it so damn hard to write mysteries?
My anxiety gets worse in the fall. Something about the crisp, autumnal air that makes me think I’m not writing fast enough, working hard enough. Maybe it’s winter bearing down on me that riles me. The frigid temps, the impending snow pack. The isolation.
I’m a downer. Please excuse the cranky author — summer has left the building.
Are you happy about summer ending? Or miserable? Or somewhere in between?
Nice thing about fall — good television returns. I’m most excited for Shameless, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, and the Blacklist. You?