The dreaded ‘loss of inspiration’ that usually follows a finished book has left me floundering for the past week. It never fails. Whenever I finish a book, I find it hard to start another. Oh, I’ve started another but writing it is like pulling teeth. I can’t seem to get motivated. The desire is there, somewhat, but opening the manuscript accomplishes nothing. I sit here staring at the blinking curser. What I wanted to work on isn’t doing anything for my muse. No, he wants to write vampires and I really don’t want to do that yet. The vamps were later. About 4 books later to be exact. I’m not sure I can get the muse to do anything until I work on it a bit. Maybe a few chapters will please him enough to get back on track.
The muse has left the building
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