I have found that whenever I approach something from a place of absolute certainty, dare I even say with a degree of hubris, the Universe (or in this case, the Muze) decides to show me who is boss. Now I am a beggar in front of the keyboard (ok ok, yes at times on the chaise watching youtube videos) pleading for the smallest inspiration.
It does not help that I spent October in a month long poetry project and not outlining, plotting or planning my novel. And other than the title, I do not care for much of what I have written.
It is ironic - my story's theme is one of the woods and here I am lost... so what do I do?
Do I change directions? Just keep going? Do I stop, collapse on the forest floor of my mind-space and wait to be devoured, literary carrion? What about Jason.... Or worse - Annie Wilkes??
Time to just write. Maybe the way forward is through...
“We all have forests on our minds. Forests unexplored, unending. Each one of us gets lost in the forest, every night, alone.”
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