I need to write.
Need, need, need to write.
But I don’t know what.
I have the workings of a suspense novel running around my mind. But they aren’t doing anything else except for running. They’re not even solidifying into anything concrete. Except for the small, very vague main idea.
I keep a Word document of the funny things my family and friends say. Often, I’ll update this document, shut it down, and open a new, blank document, waiting for some magical inspiration to strike. Or something like that.
But nothing happens.
Which is pretty darn unfortunate. Because I have a driving itch to write.
And neither blog post nor journal entry suffices to satisfy this particular itch.
I’ve written two full-length novels – one my freshman year of high school, the other my sophomore year of high school. I haven’t written since then. I knew I would need at least twelve months’ break after writing the second novel (that was the length of time between the two), but I didn’t know it would extend to a three-year “silence,” if you will.
I am itching to write another novel.
But I have not a single plausible idea at the moment. Well, except for the suspense idea. But like I said, it’s not solidifying.
I am a writer at heart. That, I know. But right now, my writer’s spirit is silent. Clamoring to write something, yes, but ultimately silent.
Silence seems to be a theme in my life. One that I will leave to analyze later. Or maybe just in my journal. But either way, it’s not a topic for 1:30 am, not even for a night owl like me. ha!