When I start nearing the end of a book, I clutch my chest and start bracing for the palpitations: do I have another story in me? I recall always having some story lined up, always having something to write, but since I started seriously writing it seems the brilliant award winning ideas have derailed into the vastness of my endless thoughts.
Do I have another story? This plagues me into insomnia. What if I never have another creative thought in my life? What if there is nothing beyond this? What if all i’ll ever be is a nurse who wrote a few things? Ugh, hello 3 a.m. and hopeless thoughts of being a has-been writer.
Alas, the clouds break and the rain goes away and smack dab near the end of writing this current book a new set of voices break through. Bad timing, I tell them . …
View original post 238 more words