I was catching up on my blog reading this morning when I read a post about why someone writes. She ended her post by asking why I write. So not something I wanted to think about. Here’s the dirty little secret I’ve been wrestling with but I haven’t shared with anyone…Ever since I published that desperate driving desire to write and publish has been satiated.

I’m not sure why I write anymore. That thrill of creation occurs less and less. Mostly when I sit down to create a new work I just feel like it’s a job. It’s WORK.

I used to sit down at my laptop and work to get myself into the right space and then when the words started to flow it was amazing. This incredible sensation, of yes, this is it.

It rarely happens anymore. Mostly I slog it out and it sounds like crap to me after I’m done. I can tell you the exact spot in my spy novel, where it becomes crap. The stuff I wrote four years ago, is good. I can still see that. But the new stuff, the stuff I wrote this year to finish it. Crap. Pure crap.

I’ve lost that loving feeling. Now it’s gone, gone, gone, whoa o o o.

Maybe I need a bunch of guys in uniform to sing to me in a bar….