I need to get back to the place where the stories live. That bubbling wellspring where ideas pop into being, just below the surface of the conscious mind. I call it the Dreamtime.
I haven't been able to access it lately.
Writers are always told that as soon as they finish one project, they should plunge right into a new one. But the novel I've labored over for six years is still in search of an agent, and there's something about the grueling, grinding process of choosing agents, sending out queries and samples, and fielding responses that's the antithesis of the serenity I need to re-enter the Dreamtime.
I've begun a couple of (very occasional) blogs, in keeping with my mantra that writing begets writing; I'm hoping some impromptu blogging will help me catch and process any stray thought that might bloom into the kernel of a new idea.
My Irish friend, Maurice, manages a movie theater here in town; we gab at least once a week on the phone while he's setting up press screenings. During one such occasion, I told him, "Wait minute, let me grab my calendar; I can't think and talk at the same time." To which he replied, without missing a beat, "Thinking and talking are the same thing to an Irishman."
I wish thinking and writing were the same thing for me. Ideas come and go in my tiny brain, popping like soap bubbles in the shower (where most of my fledgling ideas materialize—then disappear). What I need more of these days is time—blesséd, quiet, contemplative time, and the peace to use it well—so I can find my way back into the Dreamtime.