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I didn’t do an update for May, but I was writing.

I wrote every morning before work. I wrote on the weekends. I would have liked to have written at night, but I was working long hours. Still am. Day job has erupted in scalding, frothy craziness and washed away the majority of my sanity. What little I have left I try to reserve for my children. (Apologies to my spouse. Not quite enough left over for him.)

I’ve been working on the third book in the series. I’m finally getting to scenes I’ve been imaging for years and years. It’s bittersweet. On the one hand, I love discovering how my characters react to the obstacles in relation to where they actually are in their growth and change, which isn’t something I’d really taken into account during my imaginings. It feels heady to march toward the end, to be close. On the other hand, it means I’m getting close to the end. I’m going to say goodbye to these people I’ve lived and breathed and loved. Just writing that sentence made me teary.

Because of that emotion alone, I would have expected my writing to have more “feels.” But I have been so completely, utterly, totally wrung emotionally dry by the heavy workload, high stress, and long hours of work. When I reach into that well of feeling, there’s nothing there. I’m still able to write, the ideas still come, but I’m too drained to pour the emotion into my work.

And that’s ok. I realize what’s going on, and I know that this period of long, crazy hours will end. When it’s over, and I’ve recovered, I’ll still have an initial draft. The story and characters will still be there, waiting for me.

When it’s time to rewrite and edit, I’ll do better. I’ll do it again, this time with feeling.

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