Teen months ago I finished a draft for The Code: Book 3. As is tradition I took some time after to question every creative choice if ever made, and berate myself for being generally bad at this whole writing thing. It was meant to pass; it always does. Then I would pick up my red pen and get to editing. The thing is, I quickly found myself in a creative slump. It wasn’t so much writers block add it was a general limitation of my own brain to comprehend what I was doing.
Something was wrong with me. That something, it turns out, was pregnancy. It was confirmed by my the best writing pals, two of which are mom’s themselves. I jokingly sent the picture of an unclear pregnancy test result to them, asking “lol what am I supposed to make of this?”
“Oh Hun, it means your pregnant.”
I’ll spare you the details save that I gave myself permission to not quite about Book 3 for the next 7 months (I didn’t realize I was with child for some time.)
On December 6th, my son was born. I am wildly in love with him. The way he squeaks unexpectedly in his sleep. The way he clasps his hands over his chest when I’m feeding him. Even now, at 4:15 in the morning, horribly sleep deprived and listening to him fuss in the bassinet, I’m in love. What a life changing experience.
Of course now I’ve got no excuse. Those pregnancy hormones are no longer a valid reason to not write or edit. I’ve had seven months to question the plot of Book 3, and question I did. And am doing. All the time. Fuck.
In between feedings and burpings and snuggles, I’m trying again. I’m examining motivations and development. Some of the draft can stay, but a huge chunk of it needs to be canned. Seven months is a long time in the world of writing. Skills change, ideas morph, diapers get soiled – way, no, that’s mom mode again. Whatever. I am really tired. The point is this, I’m not dead yet, and Book 3 is coming. Just you wait and see.