I don’t know if you could exactly say it was writer’s block. I think it was just burnout. I’d produced three books in a very short period of time, and then I just felt like … I was done.
But I wasn’t. You see, I have a “story brain” that just won’t shut off.
My girlfriend brought this to my attention when she finally told me how much she loved it when I would narrate just about everything — from animals to inanimate objects — where I apparently project personalities on them and then offhandedly tell her what is going on. The salt and pepper shakers, you see, were plotting against the syrup bottle … or the cats were in cahoots to murder the dog. Or, as I would explain (and not really even realize what I was doing) the flies would all disappear because we’d pulled out a fly swatter, and they were hiding in a corner somewhere creating diagrams of how they would counter-attack when we were least expecting it.
Seriously, I was totally in the dark that I even did this. It was just how I made small talk.
Another seemingly unrelated thing was what I considered a very bad habit: my mind would constantly come up with the worst possible scenarios for everyday mundane events. These I kept to myself, because I thought I was going nuts. Villians, terrorists, deranged killers, monsters, demons — I would enter a restaurant and scope out the quickest escape, or the most logical counter-attack … not that I believed these things would happen, but the horrible scenarios would play out in my head like a TV show.
I wondered: How long have I been like this? Have I been doing this all my life? Did I do this as a child? It was horrible, and more than once I tried to get in to see a psychologist to find what was wrong with me.
But then, one day only a few weeks ago, I realized it had gone away. Completely. And the reason I noticed this is because suddenly it started coming back — and that is when I discovered why.
This bad habit of imagining horrible scenarios had begun after I’d stopped writing fiction. But in October of 2019 I started writing again, and then didn’t even notice this bad habit had vanished. That is, until I’d finished the first draft of the new novel, then it started up again.
That’s when I realized what was going on.
If I’m not plotting the next several scenes in a novel, my “story brain” has nothing better to do than to have a mad gunman invade McDonald’s, or have an airplane crash into my building at work, or have a meteor strike while I’m driving cross country — leaving me to figure out how exactly I’d survive.
It appears I need to constantly be writing fiction just to keep the demons at bay.