Betwixt and between.
I’m trying to decide what to work on next, while I begin the process of querying. I have to be working on something, because querying without another project to focus on is a certain design plan that leads to a very fitted white jacket. Nicely accessorized with padded walls, but really, I’d prefer something loose and flowing right now. I could go back to the WIP that’s been frying brain cells for years already. I could begin something completely new. I’ve got an idea for a character, but no plot. This is new for me. Usually by the time I’m at or near the end of a project, and I’ve been writing regularly, the first portion of the next project seems to write itself, because it’s been brewing. Not this time. I’m not blocked, just unsure of which direction I want to take.
In the meantime, I’ve been trying to do some reading. In doing so, I’ve discovered a fundamental truth about Mrs Fringe has changed. I don’t remember not knowing how to read, I don’t remember not loving to read, and I’ve always been a trope of a bookworm. Sure I had books I liked, books I loved, books I raced to finish because I didn’t enjoy them, but I read them. I would read anything, and finish it. If I had nothing new to read, I would reread; hell, I remember my mother yelling at me because I was standing in the refrigerator, reading the labels on the condiments.
I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been broke for long enough that I’ve adjusted to not having things to read, or because of my period earlier this year of not being able to lose myself in a novel, but it has changed. I’ve picked up at least three books in the past few months that I didn’t enjoy, and I didn’t finish them. How does this happen? Something so much a part of me, how others see me and how I define myself, no longer true.
I’ve also read several books I liked, and a couple that I loved. But now that I’m feeling this whole whichwaydoIgo in terms of writing, I wonder if the two are connected. I wonder if Heinz is still running that write-our-slogan campaign.