Alright, so the past couple of weeks have not been the best for writing. Some of this can be blamed on the move. Packing and shifting every ounce of your crap over a thousand miles can be rather...disruptive to a person's creative process. My shift in work schedule, workload, social interaction and family circumstances can all bear their share of the guilt as well.
Not everything can be blamed on that one choice, though. I am starting to worry, just a little, that I am crushing myself with my own expectations. Wolfhound succeeded so spectacularly that I began to get a bit carried away with delusions of grandeur and hopes of being a self sufficient writer by the end of 2013. Realistically, as Wolfhound's sales start to settle down a bit from the post-Christmas writing craze and Kingsley continues to poke along at the okay-to-good level, I am glad we haven't left the day job just yet.
Right at that same moment, when my wildest dreams are fading back to a more humdrum practicality, I've landed in a pretty comfy spot. My new job is no longer an exercise in crazy, I can sleep, attend church and act almost like most normal people, and I now live rather close to family instead of a time zone away. That is a level of comfort that we haven't had in a long while, and I worry that it is lulling me to slack off on my writing almost as badly as my crushing burdens in Texas were.
But perhaps all of this is merely an example of excuse finding. Maybe I simply need to regain my focus, settle my shoulders, and get back into it. Yet where do I begin? Any ideas? Blergh.
In any case, I will get back to work on Iron Angels. No rest for the wicked...