Writer's block is an ugly thing. When you identify as a writer, live and breathe your characters as if they were your closest friends, the loss of that escape is more traumatic than the loss of a lover. Since finishing Maelstrom in 2008 I've struggled, unable to complete a work of long fiction. I wrote flash - some good, some just sort of meh, but it wasn't the same. And here lately I've written a lot of poetry, most of it tolerable only because of its brevity.
I've spent a large part of the last two years depressed, going through the motions while I wondered if I would ever have that feeling again of being on a wild ride with my most exciting imaginary friends, thousands of words a night flowing onto the page. I wondered at times if there was nothing left inside to give to my writing endeavors and if I should just give it up and go back to painting, dancing, long course triathlon, or whatever. I even wondered if life itself was worth living, since I had nowhere to escape to any more.
So when a story idea I'd had for awhile suddenly insisted I drop everything and write, it hit me from out of left field. I knew what that call meant, though. I knew I had no choice but to follow wherever it would lead.
As with any work of long fiction, I can't say how it will turn out or if it will be finished at all, but I've written 13,000 words in five days and my characters are still pestering me to tell their story. They whisper when I'm tired and nag me when I have to do the job that pays the bills. They're jealous of my time and for my part I wish I could give them all of me.
Even now, right this minute, they're wondering why I'm even talking about it when I could be writing their story...