I got COVID during the holidays, and to prevent myself from going nuts, I took long walks. It helped me clean out the attic of my cluttery brain.
But on December 27th, something peculiar happened: I made the decision to stop writing. Before anyone panics, it's far from the first time something like that happens.
The life of the artist is unfortunately riddled with doubt. This time though, it felt more real, like it reached somewhere deeper.I
I managed to convince myself that no, I would go on and keep at it, and the compromise was that I wouldn't put so much pressure on myself. I would write with no expectation of getting X number of short stories out in 2022. I would edit my novel with no big hopes of getting an NYC agent or make a big splash. Basically I would get rid of ambition and just enjoy the process.
All was good.
Except now that I'm trying to restart, it feels like a big chunk of machinery is missing inside me. The lawn mower won't start. What does it mean? Did my subconscious really did quit on me?
I don't know. If it did, the question is: What the hell do I do now?
So yeah, now you can go ahead and start panicking.
Give yourself time, man. Recharge your batteries. Past 2 years have been tough, and recent holdiday "vacation" (haha) have also been tough, I'm sure.
I think not putting pressure is the right approch, but gotta separate pressure and ambition. I think it's fine to have ambition -- to do good work, to improve, to be the best you can be, to learn more -- and it can be part of the drive.
But putting pressure on yourself based on external markers -- number of stories published, etc -- can be counter-productive and lead to creative burnout, IMO, because that stuff isn't in your control. The only thing you can control is your process.