When we moved here, many of my friends predicted my writing would take off. That I would be so inspired here, I would become some kind of literary Georgia O’Keefe, exploding with masterworks.

Well, okay, it’s only been a month.

But the work hasn’t been just flowing out this week.

It could be because of my head cold. I’m muzzy-headed. But I don’t think that should matter, because I suspect writing comes from a different place than the mind. I asked paranormal romance author Melissa Mayhue the other day if she thinks she writes from her brain. She said it was more like the dreamy place she was in playing with dolls as a little girl.

I know what she means.

Lately it’s been hard for me to capture the dreaminess. It could be that I’m revising, which is very think-y. All the time I’m weaving, massaging and reworking, making sure all my threads are lining up. When I have to add text, it feels mechanical. I’m not feeling it.

And part of it is, I’m writing about sinister moments in dark forests, while outside my window the sky is brilliant with light and the desert sweeps in a golden surge up to the blue mountain vista.

This morning, I actually buried my head in my hands to shut it out, so I could dive into the darkness the scene needed.

I wonder how much of it you really need to feel, for the writing to be good.

I’m probably overthinking.