I’m Not Writing (and it feels great)

I’m a pretty disciplined writer. I mean, not like some, but I’m a five-days-a-week, 1,000-words-per-day kind of girl when I’m working on a novel. When I’m editing a draft, I’m pretty regimented, too. But, man, when I’m done, I’m done.

And right now, I’m so done.

I just turned in another novel to my agent (after working through three drafts), and I can’t even think about writing anything else for…I don’t know…a while. I know some people who finish one manuscript and immediately start another one. I don’t understand these people. How do they replenish their sanity after using it up?

Even if I were in the indie publishing world (which I may very well be someday) and felt the pressure to publish faster, I don’t think I could make myself write constantly. I’d have to choose between that and being a person.

So, for now, I’m staring out the window and running in good weather and talking to my three teenagers, all without trying to simultaneously solve tricky plot holes in my mind. There’s open space in my brain, and it feels pretty good.

We’ll see how long it lasts.