I’d been working on Chapter 12 of my next novel (due out in November this year, 2023) for a few days. A bit more than a thousand words in, I wrote this sentence: “He was going to need to figure out how to deal with whatever Arthur Gold had planned, but it wouldn’t do to show his hand right there.”  My brain came to a full stop. I understood I could take that sentence a whole bunch of directions. I had no idea which direction made sense. I also wasn’t sure I even liked that sentence.

I’d written about two pages (a decent amount for any morning at my desk). My brain was saying it’s time to call it quits. Something will show up tomorrow, hopefully. Maybe not. We’ll see. I wasn’t worried. However, a few years ago a shut down like that might have found me feeling incompetent or guilty or frustrated or discouraged .

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