As the new month starts, I'm taking stock of where I am with my writing. It isn't pretty. Oh sure, I have a couple anthologies on the horizon, and a novel coming out at the end of this month, but after that? Nothing. I should be submitting to anthologies, but haven't been writing short stories. Heck, I haven't been writing anything. And while I'm a big advocate of taking time away from writing to recharge, refresh, and reclaim sanity, having only one story out on submission (and I have a feeling it won't be accepted, so I'm not counting on it as a sale) is a bit scary.
It's been great having time to read. I'm caught up on my reviews. My TBR pile is manageable once again. I read some crap, some very good stuff, and a lot between those extremes.
I spent most of last week in San Francisco on a trip for the day job. I walked alone in the rain late at night through part of the city - under a freeway, over shattered sidewalks, through puddles with oil-slick rainbows. It was very peaceful and beautiful in a way that maybe only I appreciate. I realized that maybe I don't spend enough time alone, relying on myself.
And speaking of relying on myself - there is no muse who will come swooping down with inspiration. Motivation always has to come from within. And since motivation is the opposite of inertia, the biggest part is getting B.I.S. - butt in seat - and just typing. So that's my plan this month. Just write. Call it pushing, forcing, or coaxing, I'm going to get moving. It's time.