After fifteen months of not writing I thought I'd never get back into it.
In the past year I've begun two books, both the next in the series of those already in existence. I got to about a hundred pages in both but it just wouldn't come. In fact I didn't want it to come. Was I finally losing the urge after over twenty five years?
At first I was relieved. Twenty five years for daddy's little hobby wasn't so bad. At least it didn't go the way of photography and all the other transient pastimes I picked up.
Then I got upset. I love writing, so why didn't I want to do it anymore?
Now I know. I was writing the wrong thing. This weekend I've written, without effort, nearly ten thousand words. Of course a lot of that will be annihilated in the first edit, but for the first time in a couple of years I'm finally excited by writing, and what I'm writing.
Going to take a few hours off now until my fingers stop bleeding. I might have to buy a new keyboard as well. This one's beginning to groan.