Who Feels Like Writing?

Image from Wikimedia Commons: Doctor
Schnaubel von Rom, mid-17th century

Not your humble correspondent, that's for certain.

If it wasn't for the fact I've got several months' worth of material ready for posting (Sowing Ghosts is eighteen chapters long, meaning a dozen chapters to go and a dozen weeks of posts just requiring formatting and scheduling) this blog would certainly have fallen off a cliff by now.

I am somewhat bemused to realize that this period of isolation isn't bringing me any wonderful new discoveries. Cooking? I already do a lot of that. Hoarding? Not necessary, because we have always planned our shopping fairly thoroughly, and we tend to buy fresh meat, veg, and fruit once a week, and to buy only what we know we're going to need.

Reading? It's what I do for pleasure anyway. (This year I decided to keep track of my reading: as of the end of March I had read or reread 75 books, and I added another seven titles to the list in the first week of April.)

But I sure don't feel like writing. For me writing is my full-time job, and at the moment I don't really have the attention span to cope. I'm down to the final few scenes of the first draft of a new novel... and there's just nothing there. I can't even get myself excited about revision and rewriting.

Okay, there's nothing new in that. I can never get myself excited about revision and rewriting.