Note to self: Don’t read fiction before breakfast.
I got almost no writing done yesterday. Eked out maybe 200 words. At the time, I felt like I was stuck because I had no idea what came next in the story. Couldn’t picture it. Couldn’t find it. Just… total dead end.
Then this morning, when I was walking the dog, bits and pieces started to come back to me. I caught a line, which turned into a thread, and I started seeing where it was going again.
When I got back home, though, I picked up the book I was reading and … swoosh, away it all went again. It’s going to come back because I’m going to stare at the open Word file until it does, but ugh, it’s annoying.
I love fiction for the escape, but I think I’m probably better off not reading while I’m writing. I need my escape to be into my world, not someone else’s.