I’ve floated through that creative twilight time between Hanukkah and the global New Year’s Day and landed on the tiniest bit of debris in an ocean of new story ideas. My goals remain one screenplay and one novel, yet my muse strays like a cat working every home on the street.
At what point does forcing creative focus become self-abuse?
Writing what you want when you want is still too new a relationship after years of writing strict outlines on specific timetables. Perhaps my goal should have been ‘enjoying the process’ instead of ‘finish this and that.’