I finished a really GOOD novel last month--written by someone else, a writer who is just entering the publishing scene but has done a marvelous job with her first book. It was light and fun, but it touched on difficult subjects such as aging in our society and loss of a child. I wanted to finish my day so I could get back to it each evening. I was very bereft when I read the last page. I might read it again right away.
(The novel was Remarkably Bright Creatures by Shelby Van Pelt, if you want to check it out. It may not hit you the same way as it did me, but I loved it.)
The next morning, when I sat down to write, I couldn't. I was able to journal up a storm, but writing fiction felt impossible. Like the channel was clogged. I pushed myself but the result was not worth the time.
