Aargh. My current novel,
Bring Me to Life, was progressing well enough up until a month or two ago. Then real life began to intervene (pulling me away from a constant presence in cyberspace, too). I'm now settling back into a writing (and blogging) routine, but here's my problem:
The remaining plot I had planned to write seems hackneyed to me.
I really like what I've laid down so far. I don't believe it's predictable or cliched, I think it explores the characters well, I hope it's engaging to the reader. It's enjoyable to me on a re-read, so it at least passes the first test. But now I need to draw these characters and their setting toward the conclusion of the novel, and the path I'd charted for them, well, sucks.
I've already written the last scene. I know where I want to end up. But the way I was planning to get there from where I am now just doesn't work for me.
So I've been waiting for inspiration. So far, it's been as reliable as Godot.
I feel that I need to allow myself some time to just sit and muse, to take in what's going on around me, to draw some new ideas from my environment and my own fevered brain. Hasn't worked yet. Nor have long showers (generally a
great place for ideas). But there's still a good deal going on in my life, more than a little unrest, so it could just be that I've not found the writing frame of mind again yet.
I'm about to get on a plane to Washington, DC. My plan: stare out the window. Type if inspiration strikes. I'll beat this block yet.