I'm not kidding

Lately, I'm sort of sick of myself.

No, really. I'm not kidding.

I even ran extra fast on my run today just to see if I could get away from thinking so much. My dog was dying. Huffing, puffing, panting, tongue to the ground, eyes begging me to slow down, and tail wagging thankful when we stopped at the crosswalk for traffic.

My husband would say I'm running away from something; I would say I'm running toward something. We'd both be a little bit right.

See...I'm working on a story I've been working on for a VERY LONG time. Years, in fact. Six years, in fact. It's a story that is likely to sell if I ever finish it. I've had my dream agent express possible interest.

But as much as I want to see it published, and as much as I really want this dream agent...I'm sick of this story. SICK of it. Enough that I could happily close the file and never look at it again.

So I'm giving myself a break.

I will be away from blogging, writing, email and the telephone until the beginning of June. We're going on a family cruise through the Greek Isles, and the only running I will do is chase my husband around the room after the kids go to bed.

My husband says, "Yeah. Right."

But I still throw the band-aid lingerie in the suitcase and leave my writing notebooks on my desk.

Because really, I'm not kidding.

The Blahs

So recently I hit this wall with a serious case of the Blahs. The kind that consume both my writing life, and more importantly, my regular life of family and kids.

It's not a mid life crisis sparked in people who are nearing...40.

It's the Blahs.

You eat Blah for breakfast. You work for Blah hours doing Blah things for Blah people. You exercise for Blah hours and come home to Blah dinner and watch Blah TV instead of writing because your story is: BLAH.

For me this means one of two things:

1.) My mind is trying to figure out the best way to improve the draft I'm working on.

2.) My story really is Blah and needs to be locked away in the drawer.

Most of the time, it's the first one. Sometimes it's the second.

I'd like to say that when I run an extra 10 miles, or do some wacky body contortion, or have my butt in my chair and stare at my book for two extra hours, that the Blahs fade away like fog in sunshine. But I would be lying.

Usually, it takes time. Because my brain isn't playing some nasty, unmotivating trick on me, it's trying to show me what to do...on it's own terms, in it's own time. So I don't end up with another Lost Story.

Does anyone else out there get the Blahs?