For the last couple of months, I've been on a roll with my writing. It's just poured out onto the page every time I've managed to grab a moment to devote to it. I'm not sure it's great writing; in fact, I know a lot of it is nonsensical, stream-of-consciousness, overly indulgent tripe. But I have more than 15,000 words of my novel and I'm hopeful that not all of it sucks. In the last week or so, the words have dried up: I feel kind of empty. Partly, this is because the writing is getting a little trickier now, and involves more craft and skill. I also need to get on with some historical research to figure out a few issues before I can write certain parts. But I'm not panicking because I've realised that I've been here before, and that this lull is part of my creative process. It's a bit like refueling. I need to fill up on ideas and inspiration: to read, take in some interesting art, listen to music, walk and think. I read a quotation from Rumi today and it made so much sense to me:
Dance, when you're broken open. Dance, if you've torn the bandage off. Dance in the middle of the fighting. Dance in your blood. Dance, when you're perfectly free. Struck, the dancer hears a tambourine inside her, like a wave that crests into foam at the very top, Begins. Maybe you don't hear that tambourine, or the tree leaves clapping time. Close the ears on your head, that listen mostly to lies and cynical jokes. There are other things to see, and hear. Music. Dance. A brilliant city inside your soul!
I'm going to bide my time and just allow myself some space to get back to that place where the words flow.