Like many other writers, both famous and otherwise, have said in the past: I don’t believe in writer’s block. I believe in stumbling blocks, silent muses, and the impetus of procrastination. But I think writer’s block, where you truly can’t write anything, is rare.
What I’ve got right now isn’t writer’s block; it’s a plot block, a stumbling block, an absent muse. I reached a point in the story of Pawn to D8 where I’m not sure what the next scene needs to be. I know what happens four or five scenes from now, but not what should take place in between. Being the linear writer that I am, I really dislike skipping forward to write the scene that I do know, so I’ve been hung up on this spot for a couple of days now.
I know part of the problem is that I haven’t been giving my muse much opportunity to come out and chat. My usual windows of opportunity for visiting with my muse – driving, exercising the dogs, doing the dishes – have recently been filled with listening to an audiobook I’m addicted to at the moment, and which I’ve been trying to sneak in in any available stretch. (The Host by Stephanie Meyer, incidentally; I was only so-so on Twilight and didn’t read the rest of the series, but I’ve been totally sucked in by this book. Can’t say if I’d enjoy the print version as well, but the audiobook has been excellent so far.)
So I’ve had the shower, but that’s been about it, and my muse really prefers the longer stretches of dog-walking or driving. Fortunately for her, the audiobook is nearly done. I’ve promised she can come out to play once it is.