What is this writer’s block thing?

Writer’s block must be the thing holding me back. Lately, I’m not satisfied with anything I write. I rewrite opening chapters or compose entirely new openings. If possible I switch chapters around. I introduce new and sparkly secondary characters. And I still don’t like what I’ve written.

I’ve hit the suffering button so many times I don’t where I am or which way is up.

My voice has changed

I’m talking about the writer’s voice, the thing that identifies the book  as essentially oneself, the trademark of the writer’s voice. You know how you can have an educated guess at which artist produced a painting just by the use of colours and style of brushstrokes even if you’ve never seen that picture before?

It’s a similar thing with a writer’s voice. Readers become used to the style, the tone, the way an author chooses what to describe and what to leave to your imagination. It’s the spirit of the book, the magic to entice you. Dammit all, without it you haven’t got a viable novel to sell.

Displacement activities

I’ve been filling my time doing other things. Gardening. Painting. Reading. Planning trips abroad.

A week of winter sun in the Canaries should surely help inspire me but instead I caught another cold, the third in as many months. I joined a gym intending to use the pool regularly. I thought if I built up my physical fitness the brain synapses would follow suit but something always came up to prevent me going on the afternoons when the pool isn’t being used by Aquafit classes or school groups.

And now it’s April. Good grief. Where has the time gone? I MUST finish A Measured Man. Poor Aubrey Tennant, (no connection with anybody I have ever known) has been waiting so long. I like him, really I do. He’s such an odd character and he can’t help the way he is. I blame his mother and all the secrets she kept from him. There’s no wonder he’s never learned how to treat a woman.

Theresa Miller, on the other hand, is causing me problems. I think I might have to change her first name what with all the Brexit stuff going on just now.

Help is at hand

I had a big birthday in January, one of those with a big, fat zero at the end. I know people say age is just a number but this is a number I’m not fond of. But my daughter found the ideal birthday presents for me.

This St Francis is the patron saint of writers. Now I have him hanging over the screen on my iMac. There he will stay for the rest of my life. I’m not a religious person but I do like some of the things he said.

I don’t do hurry. My inner peace is important to me and I’m good at patience. I have CRPS so I have to be. Some days pain nearly knocks me out and I can’t accomplish much at all. On good days I like to write as much as I can. But first I have to reboot my writer’s voice. Maybe writing this post is a good sign.

And when I find that elusive voice again I’ll be able to jot down notes in this new notebook-another gift from my daughter.

But if these charms struggle to motivate me I have two secret weapons sitting on my desk. For some reason, when I was a child I never had a Teddy Bear. Some years ago when I told my sister, she went straight out and bought me the Ted on the left. Until recently he’s been a bit lonely. So when I saw the RAF doing a charity stint in my local Tesco I bought Ted number two. Now they’re best friends

One More Thing

It’s time for me to stop reading other authors’ work. Their voices penetrate my thinking. I enjoyed The Cactus, by Sarah Haywood, Where the Forest Meets the Stars by Glendy Vanderah and Lost For Words by Stephanie Butland. But, sorry, ladies. I have to get you out of my head now.

Leave a comment below and let me know if other authors’ voices mess with your head too.