I'm coming back to a place where I'm able to write.
You see, my novel writing cycle goes like this:
Go back and skim what has been written, think it's good enough to continue.
Skim again, think it's fantastic...
Dream about the characters, think about turns of phrase while driving, showering, eating.
Go back and skim what has been written and start to question if it makes sense.
Begin to feel in over-your-head, wonder what made you think you could write in the first place.
Leave document open, but unused, on the desktop for a week.
Pick up a book and attempt to spark the desire to write again.
Here is where there may be a variation:
If the book is good, it inspires writing and the cycle can start anew.
If the book is bad, the cycle stalls and will remain in a holding pattern for a little longer. Eventually though, bad writing can motivate a writer as well. Thoughts begin like this: if this gets published, what am I waiting for? Why am I being so hard on myself? - and writing can once again commence.
Of course, for me, this cycle is also dotted with about a hundred diapers, twenty (ok, sixteen at the most) hours of office work outside the home, bouts of mommy-guilt, and sporadic attempts to regain a bathing suit worthy pre-pregnancy figure.
Needless to say, it's a slow process.
In short story randomness, I noticed this evening that my short piece, "Fishbowl" (currently up at Word Riot), is also noted at eScene as part of their compilation of the best of the literary web. Nice.
Although, this reminds me that I haven't worked on short fiction for months now and I think I might miss it. Novels are exhausting.