So I wrote this whole blog post in my head while in the shower and drying my hair, and now I don’t remember a word of it.

I very eloquently summed up what it felt like to desperately want to do something,  but being completely incapable of it.

That’s how I feel about writing most of the time. The ideas are stacked up, the characters are impatient, my readers are waiting, and yet, the ability to sit and type the words that are flowing to me through the ether is the hardest possible thing to do.

My ability to hyperfocus has unfortunately disappeared.

Instead, the desperate need for a dopamine hit, any hit, takes over and I find myself mindlessly scrolling through terrible videos and checking out so completely that I’m not even aware of the time or where I am.

I do believe that hormonal changes in the last three years are the main culprit of my complete lack of attention span, but I’ve never had much attention span and have always had the memory of a goldfish. The main difference now is that I know why, and I cut myself some slack now.

I never used to. I used to push myself hard to get things done, even when I lacked the motivation. I never accepted any physical issue to be an excuse to miss deadlines. Or even any emotional or mental issue. I have written parts of my novels while sobbing at 3am. You probably know which parts.

I do wonder if I could have kept up my consistent output of publishing two books a year if the sales had kept increasing consistently.  But at the end of 2018, Amazon changed their algorithms and sales pages, my sales slumped, and I lost my mojo for it all.

Writing and publishing my books no longer gave me the much needed dopamine hits, and in fact, drained what little dopamine I had. I got much more satisfaction from helping other authors to publish, and so my attention shifted to that. I’ve published dozens of books in the last 6 years, but only 6 of my own.

Which might sound like a lot, but it’s half of my output previous to that. (And one was a quote book, one was a poetry book and three were children’s novels, so indeed far less writing than normal).

I don’t know how to find the joy in writing again. Perhaps I need to change my medium, use my typewriter, or go back to pen and paper. But the idea of typing it all up after does not appeal! Unfortunately, dictation is out of the question. It seems that the act of typing the words (or handwriting them) is my method. When I try to verbalise the story flowing through, it ends up in the ‘he says this, then she replies, then they do this’ format, as opposed to actual dialogue and action.

Bizarre, I know, but true.

I found writing to be a bit easier in Morocco. It seems the sunshine provided enough dopamine for me to be able to focus better. But I haven’t written more than 1000 words since I got back, 10 days ago, and I had promised myself that I would get book 11 done by the end of this month.

Old me would move heaven and earth not to break that promise.

Current me is just tired. And in need of sunshine!