The expression on my mug, above, reveals my inner feelings of ye moment -- lost and weary, with an intense feeling of isolation. I've come to the conclusion that the story I have been trying to write is the "wrong" story, or that it is something I really don't care to write. I should have realised this when, week after week, it would not spill from my cracked skull, however much I thought about it and try'd to write it. This isn't an aspect of writer's block, as I have mistaken it to be, but rather a wrong direction. I suspect that writing will continue to be difficult, because of my household situation and inability to concentrate; but I worked within that household chaos this summer, in which I wrote a new collection and a long novelette. So I know I can do it again, if I can get lost in some new work, something that captivates my imagination.
I am more and more convinced that the writing of novels is the path I want to pursue in the future. I'm still not quite certain that I have what it takes to write novels, the mind-set required to plot something of 80,000 words, to fill it with interesting characters and incidents, to understand the structure of novel writing, the build-up to narrative arc and all of that. Guess I won't know until I fully try. The desire to write novels has been triggered by a number of things, mostly from returning to my favorite novels by Henry James. I've started re-reading THE TRAGIC MUSE and that very strange work, THE SACRED FOUNT.
So now I get to re-think where I am, what I want to do next. The way to find my path comes, mostly, from reading. The books that inspire me most are biographies of other writers--I devour them, and as I read I sigh that I am a part of this rich Literary sphere. Hmm, have I ever done a Henry James video? I cannot recall. Oh, yes!