More of a chronic, really

I was about to say that I was still going through the crisis that started around Christmas, but then I decided that you can’t have a crisis for four months.  A crisis doesn’t have that kind of staying power.  Add together S.A.D (which is getting better), the fact that I have two frozen shoulders (which are getting worse), which makes sleeping difficult and waking painful, and a month of sick children (who are better and worse alternately),  and you have a writer who is very unproductive and feeling very sorry for herself.

Essentially, I don’t know what to do with myself any more, and that is reflected in Under the Hill, which doesn’t know what kind of a book it wants to be.  Or perhaps it’s just that I can’t make myself want to write it, no matter what it is – fantasy or romance.  I have no muses, no inspiration, no energy, no enthusiasm.  I can’t imagine ever having them again.

I badly need something new and fabulous to come along and re-awaken me, but naturally that kind of thing never comes on call.  The last time it happened was discovering Patrick O’ Brian in 2007, and I’ve been living on that boost ever since.  Now that it’s run out, am I too old and cynical (and tired and despondent) for something new?  I hope not!  Does anyone have any hints on summoning the muses?  I wouldn’t force, but perhaps they could be persuaded?

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