After I finished writing the final Dylan Scott mystery, Dead Simple, I ground to a creative halt. Really. I'd vowed to get on with another book, the one I wanted to write but was too busy with Dead Simple, and meh. I slogged my way through 20,000 words, but found there were too many other things I'd rather be doing - walking the dogs, sorting through thousands of old photos, washing dishes or cleaning windows (I kid you not).
A friend told me she thought I was suffering from burn-out. I dismissed this as utter nonsense. But, as the days/weeks/months passed, I began to think she might have a point. Somehow, after decades of spending every spare moment thinking up stories, I'd fallen out of love with words.
So what did I do? I carried on walking the dogs and cleaning the windows. Result? My house sparkled and the dogs had never been fitter. But it worked because, at long last, I've fallen in love all over again.
I've remembered how much I love creating my own perfect world (perfect with the odd murder thrown in of course), how much I love hearing from readers who've enjoyed one of my books, and how great it is to find the perfect word and feel like a genius. There's no commute and I can work all night with a glass of wine to hand if I choose. Oh, and I get paid for it. It has to be the best life ever, right?
So this is one for you writers out there. Have you ever fallen out of love with your craft?