It’s a perfect time to write. I am in the process of negotiating a contract with an agent, thereby feeling some sense of validation of my writing efforts. There is a slight lull in my freelance work after a few intense weeks for which I am still billing hours of overtime. Summer weather has arrived, birds are chirping, days are stretching, herbs are sprouting in the garden, and the air feels full of possibilities.
And yet. I feel paralyzed. The sudden freedom to write is daunting. Do I re-acquaint myself with the linked short stories I was drafting a year ago? Do I launch into research for the next work of historical fiction in what I envision to be a series? Do I think about what type of blog I’d like to maintain? Or do I sort through the kids’ clothes and put away winter wear? Or run to the post office to mail that long overdue Mother’s Day gift to my husband’s grandmother? Or look for recipes for fiddleheads?
This is different from writer’s block. It’s more akin to having so many options that one runs around in circles thinking of one and then the other and ultimately accomplishing nothing. Perhaps I need to re-assess my definition of “accomplishment.” Perhaps there is something to be gained from the waffling, the questioning, the idea-hopping. How do other writers tackle this? I am so used to scrambling for stolen moments between the duties of work, motherhood and volunteerism that I seem to have forgotten what to do with the gift of time.