Years ago, I read a book on writing called Danse Macabre, by Stephen King. In it, he talked about falling through the hole in the page.
That happens to me. It probably happens to all writers. But King was talking about moments, maybe hours in a day. I vanish for months.
I have to confess that I dread falling through that hole in the page. More and more, as the months and years pass, I dread it. Once I’m in there, everything is fine. I don’t mind being in there. In fact, I LIKE being in there. But it’s after I come back than I realize how disturbing it is to leave the real world behind for so long. It wasn’t an issue when I was starting out, because I didn’t have that large span of time to look back on. I couldn’t turn my head and see that years upon years had passed while I was in a different place. A fictional place. A place where I lose track of seasons and events that mark the passage of time.
I will always write. It’s what I do, but it gets harder to make myself pick up the story again, to fall through that hole. And it happens so quickly now. A snap of my fingers and I’m there, almost like someone who has learned self-hypnosis. I took a long break from writing this spring/summer, but my break is over.
The hole is always black. That’s really too bad….