Protip: Yoga doesn’t cure writer’s block (which doesn’t really exist anyway)

What do werewolves and writer’s block have in common?

Neither of them exist.

That being said, I have been experiencing technical difficulties with my current project. It’s a good idea, has a solid backstory and setting, and, I think, is totally do-able. And it was, for about 15,000 words, before I slammed face-first into a brick wall. And I’ve spent the last–let me check my watch–forty-five minutes staring at this document.

I added a paragraph. Deleted a paragraph. Added two. Deleted one.

Did yoga in the hallway.

Added a paragraph. Hated it, but was too apathetic to actually delete it. (I think that’s what rock bottom looks like.)


So what in the bloody hell is the problem here? Let me give you some background on my writing habits: I write dark fantasy, with both literal and metaphorical guts, where people don’t get what they want, and no one gets the luxury of riding off into the sunset on a dappled pony with that sweet, beautiful widow who was determined to do anything never to rely on a man again. I write adult books with adult themes, with violence and tears and tinglies in the underoos.

This book? It’s young adult. And it’s ROMANCE.

The question that keeps popping up in my head, whenever I think about writing this book, is this: just who do I think I’m kidding here? I didn’t like being a teenager, and I don’t like romance. Hell, I don’t even remember a good deal of ages 15-18, not the specifics anyway, and what of it I can conjure from the fogged-glass nostalgia of my memory does not, in any way, resemble a romance novel. Those years have jagged edges, and I don’t like thinking about them, and I don’t like getting into that headspace.

But the first 15,000 words–they poured out like water. The prose flowed and ebbed like any good tide, the words coming out in a way that they hadn’t in many months. And then… then I stopped to think about it, and the words, well, the words…

They just kind of… dried up.

And I’ve been staring at this motherFRAKKING document for the last almost-hour, and I hate it. I hate it with the pure, blistering passion of flame. I’m tempted to give it up–I’ve got other things to work on, plenty of other things–and I even gave up an adult fantasy (the usual fare) to work on this, because I thought, there it is, right in my head, and it’ll be easier than the adult book, it’s more straightforward, less convoluted, it’s just a girl and these two boys and a decision to be made between duty and destiny and–


If I don’t finish this book, it will be the third aborted start since NaNoWriMo. Where did my discipline go? Why do I keep throwing started drafts (all in the 10-20k range, bee tee dubs) to the wind?

Am I too nervous about querying? I have manuscripts out there, floating in the magical Agent Ether. I spent so long grinding away at this last one, I got so wrapped up in the world, that I keep thinking about the characters and hilariously evil things to do to them in sequels. I have ideas–I’m fucking boiling over with ideas–but getting them down on the paper is making me twitch.

Gentle readers, I know not what to do.

…Besides resist hurling my computer across the room.

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1 Response to Protip: Yoga doesn’t cure writer’s block (which doesn’t really exist anyway)

  1. Gemma Hawdon says:

    To be honest, I have no idea what you should do about the brick wall, but I loved this blog! With that kind of fire I’m sure you’ll find a way to climb over the top of it – or, even better, smash through it 😉

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