Everyone thinks that someone who writes for a living always has something to say, but I’m here to tell you: it ain’t so. There are times — and they can be pretty darn inconvenient — when you just have nothing left to say.
For instance, when I finish a book. I write at a fairly consistent rate through most of the book, but the closer I get to the end, the more pages I write. By the time I write the very last page, my words are gone. I’ve used up every single one of them to get that book finished. Seriously. DH and I used to go out to a nice dinner to celebrate the end of a book, but gave it up after we realized that I was sitting there, brain-dead, barely able to eat, and not much fun as a companion. I’d stay that way until at least the next day as far as normal conversation, for a week or two when it came to writing again.
It’s a good kind of brain-dead, though. Finishing a book and knowing that it is finished — that there might be some minor edits but no rewrites, no major revision — is a wonderful thing. And the words always come back . . . though as I get older, I have to work harder to find the right ones. What the heck’s up with that?