Yes, I finished last month, and on time. I just didn't talk about it.
I've written over 350,000 words of fiction since January first.
It's been three weeks since I have blogged, and it is because I have nothing much to say. I can think of lots of topics and witticisms, many strings of words to display, but they are hollow; the echos of thoughts I've had in the past. And I am no longer sure if I think those things.
So silence remains.
The silence is born from outgrowing the old format of my writing, my life, my blog. I no longer know what I want to say. So I am quiet. I quietly go about my job, my workouts, my writing. Old conversation happens like a habbit, and I can taste the stale crumbs. There is a sweet melancholy to this, a mourning period in which I sit and wait to see what creature rises from the ashes.
And as I wait, I still write. Fiction, at least. The story rolls or skips or is forced out and I manage to each month end with some small amount above 50,000 words.
My stories reflect the complexities I am discovering in myself. I am a much better writer than I was when I began, and now I challenge myself each month more, with greater plot points, more characters, much more difficult problems to untangle. It gets harder, not easier, the farther I squeeze through this rabbit hole; I can no more ease up on myself than I can stop breathing. I must grow, I must push my own limits.
I read somewhere once that “writer's block” can actually be a period of silence in the growth of a writer's skill and craft, a void from which a new universe must bloom. (We all know that universes need voids to incubate properly.)
I know one thing, now. I want to have a different conversation about writing than we have been having.
I also know that things around here are going to change a little, to make room for whatever comes next.
I know I sound dark now, but In the Beginning there is always darkness.
And then there is light.