the dry well


I can’t really pinpoint the moment my inspiration well dried up and left me living with a blinking cursor and a blank screen.

But it happened. Somehow, this thing I loved doing, just stopped being a thing I loved doing.

I don’t know why. I don’t know how. But I went from being excited about writing everyday, to avoiding it like it was exercise.

The worst part of not writing was that I’d also stopped daydreaming.

It was like losing a friend. But no matter how much I wanted to repair that friendship, it was too arduous a task. It was overwhelming. It was hard fucking work. And even though I missed it, I didn’t really miss it enough to work at it.

There was a time that writing didn’t feel like work; it felt like an escape–a mini-vacation. At one point, I had convinced myself that I had nothing to escape anymore…the bad marriage had ended. I didn’t need my daydreams to get me through life. But that wasn’t really true. When I first started writing, I was happily married. I wasn’t escaping anything. I had always been a daydreamer, I started writing to give my dreams a plot. To expand their worlds. And to give me a creative outlet. I loved creating.

And then, just like that, the feeling was gone. The love was gone. The daydreams were gone.



My last book was published in 2010. That’s six years ago, y’all. That’s a long damn time in the world of writing. I had tried over the years to ignite a spark. I’d have a story idea, a niggle of a character, and I’d sit down and hammer out a couple of pages. And then I’d never look back. The niggles never grew into nudges. The ideas never seemed to stick with me. And I never went back to them.

Recently, I had the opportunity to ghost write a series. It was one of the most challenging things I’ve done because mentally, I wasn’t ready. I began to hate it. But not because I didn’t like the story or what I was working on. I hated it because it wasn’t mine. Because I had no control over the story.

Suddenly, after 3 months of writing something for someone else, I felt the desire to CREATE again.

A tiny drop of inspiration fell into my well and the echo it created was magnificent.

An idea formed. One that I couldn’t stop thinking about. And now, after 6 years…I am working on another book–with ideas pouring in for follow up books.

This feeling, is an addiction and I never want to kick this habit again.



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