Not my fault

In a mad whirlwind of creative energy, I reached into the ether and found eight thousand words, neatly packaged, waiting for me to tack them to the end of my novel and call it good. The climax and wrap-up, a full ten percent of the finished product, was written in a single day, this time last year.

Then I turned around and started making headway on the sequel. My pace dropped from superhuman levels, but I was still throwing words onto the screen at an extremely respectable pace.

Then my cat died, and Goblin, who always was a naughty girl, took my creative mojo with her into the afterlife.

I  told  her not to get cancer, but she didn't listen.

I told her not to get cancer, but she didn't listen.

The book, previously so biddable, became stubborn. It fought me at every turn. It dragged its heels. It disobeyed even the gentlest suggestions. My darling had become a teenager.

For a few more months I plodded on, determined to write Book The Second through sheer willpower, but I got sidetracked. Some of the diversions were necessary and reasonable--I made some substantial revisions to Book The First, and I wrote a couple of short stories--while other diversions were Candy Crush.

Worse than cigarettes.

Worse than cigarettes.

Plus my nom de real life was making a mess of things. Attending to her problems took away from my writing time and my peace of mind, and that's not even counting the hugely stressful interstate move I undertook at her behest.

All this to say: in the year since finishing my first draft of my first novel, my creative output has been sabotaged by hostile external forces, although I personally remain blameless. I can only hope that the enemies of my free time will dial back their campaign.