The not-so-surprising part of trying to pick up and start writing again is when things blow apart. Or don't even blow apart just sag and fall apart with a wet ploosh like a poorly conceived of water balloon.
I finished The Lipless Gods last year in a sprint. Since then I've poked at writing, but nothing substantial forms.
Tom Robbins once wrote you should look at porn before writing. Problem with that these days is the rabbit hole of the Internet.
Chandler said even if you aren't productively writing, you should keep the same hours and if nothing else, stare at the wall. Problem with that these days is the rabbit hole of the Internet.
Elmore Leonard blessed his success to the fact he never started coffee until he'd finished one page. Problem with that is I need coffee to adequately fulfill my role as slave to the cats prior to scribbling.
My fear is that to jumpstart what is currently titled Grimgrack, I'd be grafting onto it the major MacGuffin from Hellbreaker, a novel I've tried to write some 3 times (including 2 separate attempts in 2012, neither further than Chapter 15). Then, if it didn't work, I'd call Hellbreaker officially dead with Grimgrack notched into the same column in one fell swoop.
Further eroding my writerly underbelly is thinking that Larry Brown finished 5 novels before getting published and Grimgrack would only be my fourth child and though I've now made money from writing (thank you whoever bought a book!), it doesn't feel like I've earned my stripes or badge or whatever it is writer's model to tout their elevation from 'I'd-like-to-be' to 'I-am'.
When Michael Keaton comes knocking on the door to play Sipe in The Lipless Gods movie, or when Jim Harrison's estate comes after my bank account for copping one of his lines for a book title, those would be indicators.
I won't hold my breath.
End of sob story.
Lucid cover sketch courtesy Jenny Dayton.
Lucid preview available at Smashwords.
Or - if you're feeling like a Moneybags - $.99 at Amazon.