The last few weeks of writing haven’t been fun. I’d like to claim writing is always some awesomely artistic endeavor, lifting you high on wings of inspiration as your fingers float languidly over the keys. When that happens–whoopie! I remember why I decided this career was a better idea than, say, hamster-wrangling.  When it doesn’t… I turn surly.

I’ve spent the past several writing sessions combing over pages I’ve already written, re-drafting, searching for inconsistencies in theme, plot, characterization. It’s necessary work, but it ain’t the stuff we writers dream of when we don our turtlenecks and berets in the morning. For me, at least, it leads to self-doubt, angst, anguish, and psychic constipation.

Is this book gonna be as good as the last?

Do I know what the everloving fuck I am doing?

Is that job at the hamster-hut still open?

Today, I took a break from the fine-tooth comb crap, and got back to what makes me happy–silly, wacky, totally expectation-free exploration.  And what did I end up with? Naked hot spring hippies, a rainbow-colored school bus, and one very stoned heroine.

And a happy writer, who got to goof off, while doing exactly what she’s supposed to do for a living.