I’m not talking about a lost muse. It’s not writer’s block. It’s writer’s burnout. And it’s fear. You destroyed your body with the last novel, after all.
You may want to run headlong into your next project:
You dive for a touchdown in slo-mo.
The camera freezes and you’re suspended in midair, clutching the football, reaching for the goal, determination on your face.
The scene reanimates–aaand you fall flat, short of your goal.
Your body protests.
You, the rider, may be ready and willing–but the horse … not so much:
The last book you worked on drove you day and night. You fear its power:
When you’re on the hook, the book reels you in. It controls you, plays you. There is no rest until you’re flopping on the beach, unhooked and gasping.
You fear the exhaustion and lost social life.
You’ve since caught up on sleep, but your body shudders at doing it again. It’s a natural protective response.
Okay, so you cringe at getting involved. Maybe starting is the hardest part, you rationalize. You say to yourself, “This is stupid.”
You take your seat at the desk and get to it. Besides, you want the next book. Your publisher and readers want it, too.
It’s the hardest work you’ve ever loved.
Here we go again, you think.
In authorship, there’s no moderation, or things start slipping away.
At last, you make peace. You get excited. “I got this!”
Then the war cry ensues.