Or how is it already November?
It’s been an exciting year so far – I’ve finished the Lyndale Lovers series (although the idea of a short story for Charlotte won’t stop nibbling away at my brain) and nearly finished the first book in my new Texas Billionaire series (cannot wait for you guys to meet the Coleson family…they are really Something Else!), and we’ve been fortunate enough to invest in a small farm, which is definitely a fixer-upper. I’ve become a frequent Lowe’s shopper.
This week has been entertaining. As those of you who might follow me on social media know, I have ADHD which is usually a creative boon and managed by medication…which I threw away on Monday, along with my driver’s license. Peak ADHD moment, followed by sick kids and a neighbor’s dog intent on digging through our fence to help himself to our chickens.
The deadline for my editor is November 15.
No pressure.
When things are working for me, the words flow with grace. When they aren’t, it’s more like I imagine a pig sniffing around the dirt and manure for some truffles. But there are always words.
This week, the words stopped. This is slightly problematic because my day job is writing.
Now, I assume it’s probably my brain adjusting to the lack of medication, along with the seasons changing and two kids begging for snacks every few minutes, but normally I can just willpower my way through creative blocks. Instead, all I got for my trouble was a searing migraine. Exciting!
My chapter for work was due in twenty-four hours, and my brain throbbed against my skull. I couldn’t write, and I couldn’t read, and the best I could do for anyone was reheat some chicken soup, order a pizza, and watch Hamilton with the kids for the 1,000th time. A year ago I would have yelled at myself, but I was grateful that I had the life where I could take a break if I needed to.
The next day I built a fence.
My chickens weren’t too pleased to be stuck in their coop while I worked, but eventually (one exchange of fence posts later) the fence stood tall, with guards to prevent the adorable potential murderous puppy next door from digging away at my defenses.
As a writer, my creations are generally private. Very few of the words I type or scrawl on paper ever make it to an audience. Seeing the fence, proof that I could build, however poorly, something that could stand on its own, was a rare reward. Tangible proof that I could still create.
That afternoon, headphones cranked up high, the words came back.
I can’t wait to share them with you soon.
Juliet Holmes 