O writing mojo, writing mojo. Wherefore art thou, writing mojo?

LOST

My writing mojo.

Last seen somewhere near Peniche, Portugal.

Answers to name Erratic, Unreliable, or Unpredictable.

Reward offered (currency: Gin and Tonics)

I am not quite sure what the problem is, but ever since I got home last week I have really lost my writing mojo.

Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I am really not loving my manuscript. I know, I know, you will all just roll your eyes at that and tell me to stop being such a perfectionist. Those of you who don’t know me so well (or at all, other than through this blog), will tell me that the first draft is always pretty bleak, and just to plough on. Just get it done, no matter how bad the writing. I am telling my brain and typing fingers all of these things, but the big problem is that I just don’t like the basic concept of my novel anymore (did I ever? I can’t remember). And that is a problem.

It’s too clichéd. It’s not original enough. The characters are naff. It’s, well, dumb.  And as the only person who has actually read it that means I have 100% consensus on this. So no arguments.

One of the main reasons I know I’m not loving it is because for the life of me I cannot think up a title for it. It is still called ‘Book Draft 1’. Catchy huh?

But I am going to finish it. I am. I am! I just need to get my writing mojo back on. Or just sit in the bloody seat, start typing, and stop procrastinating.

Because procrastinating I have been. This has taken on many forms in the last week, most of them entirely justifiable of course. Like catching up with friends who have had babies either while I was away or since I got back. And there are a lot of them – I think my friends are single handedly working to keep the average Australian birth rate up. Which is lucky I guess, since they have to take on my share of the breeding as well. Thanks guys.

I’ve also been lunching and brunching, shoe shopping, testing out all the new espresso bars on Oxford Street, signing myself up for Pilates and piano lessons, drinking wine/G&T’s/pretty much anything to hand, and spending way too much time reading The Daily Mail Online to ensure I am up to speed with all of the world's most important news.

Enough. I don’t need to know what Kate Middleton was wearing at that charity do. Or eat bacon and eggs ten ways. I just need to write. I need to put one word in front of the other and march towards THE END.

And I will. Just as soon as I have another coffee.