The Morning After Blues

It’s Monday morning and I’m sitting in front of my computer trying to figure out what to do. It’s not like I don’t have work. I just can’t seem to focus even though I’ve got everything I need to make the day a fruitful and productive one; my cup of coffee, music -- early Ricky Martin before he crossed over -- playing in the background, and our Pugs a few feet away on their bed. They’re snoring, snorting and performing gaseous feats that would put a grown man to shame.

There are days I go through this lack of focus. Sometimes for weeks at a time! And not just because the dogs gas me out of breath. Today there’s more to it than that. You see, this past Saturday night I finished the first draft of my third book, “Learning To Samba.” You’d think completing it would be a good thing. It was! We even went out to celebrate and spent all my future royalties! But that was then.

Now, I’m just dealing with “the morning after” blues. Yesterday didn’t really count since my partner was here; we went out for breakfast, ran errands, ran into a friend and did some things around the house. It kept my mind occupied. Today, however, my partner is at work and I’m alone in the house.

And I’m worried.

Will people like the book? Is the story too much? Is it too realistic or not realistic enough? Are the characters strong? Are they too clichéd? Stereotypical? Have people read this before? Will my editor like it? Will she recommend it for publication? Worse yet, what will I do with it if she doesn’t?

Working on a book is a strange experience. I’ve gone through short spurts where I type as fast as I can because time is limited and I want to get every nuance down on paper. If I’m lucky, I might have hours on end to work on the story and let it come forth.

But then there are the endless days and weeks, if not months, where I don’t write a word because I just don’t know where the story is going. I don’t know if the characters ring true. I don’t know if what they did will change something pivotal and so drastically that it will determine a totally new outcome for the protagonist.

I go through bouts of self-doubt and I berate myself for daring to be something I’ve always wanted to be.

And then, like taking a mental laxative, the negativity slowly dissipates and the story just goes again. Sometimes I can’t stop and I sure as hell don’t want to! Not when the muse is standing behind me, her gracious hand on my shoulder, egging me on.

Though each writing experience is different, depending on the story, in a way it’s like the build-up to the perfect Florida version of the Currier & Ives Christmas party we try to have every year. First we plan. Then my partner usually creates original artwork or an invitation. We send them out. The tree goes up, the ornaments begin to adorn, and everything starts to look a lot like Christmas.

Then the fated day arrives.

People come. They bring food. They eat, they laugh, they drink. They reconnect. That’s when I usually wind up experiencing what I call “My Perfect Culmination.” It’s when I pull back, albeit slightly tipsy, then watch and listen to everyone being involved and interactive with everyone else as pockets of conversation try to drown out another. All the while you can’t even hear the party music.

Then, wooosh, just like that…it’s over.

I’ve been wandering about aimlessly this morning. I’d go as far as to say that I’m drained and even somewhat depressed. I’m no longer with my buddies; though I will be soon enough. I do have to edit after all. It’s just strange not being with them, stuck in their muck of drama that occupied almost every moment of my day; whether it was in the forefront while sitting at the computer, working on the story, or in the background when I showered, brushed my teeth or went to sleep.

I suppose in a way it’s okay, though. At least now I can finally pay the bills I’ve been ignoring as they stacked up. I can play with the dogs, the cat, my partner; though probably not in that order. But first, I think I’ll attack the lava flow of clothes that’s been slowly erupting and pushing up from the inside of my volcano hamper.

Oh, right. I almost forgot. The house will finally be clean again!

And soon, the entire process will begin anew. I'm starting to hear new voices in my head.