For months now I've been plodding on, making time when I can and getting a few lines here, a few chapters there. I've been struggling on with two sequels.
But it hasn't been right.
Have I lost it, I wondered. After thirty years, had the writing bug finally been cleansed from my soul?
Then last week I finally realised. Just chugging away at sequels wasn't what I love. I love writing just for it's own sake. And although I'd like to be rich - who wouldn't? I wasn't putting my heart into it because I wasn't doing anything new.
So I am, and I will. I even toyed with the idea of writing under a pseudonym so that people wouldn't associate it with my older novels. But why should I? I write in a variety of genres, so this next new one might as well be just another in that long list.
I don't actually know what this one will be about yet, but I'm excited to discover what it will be.
At last, I've found my mojo. Time to trash a few keyboards.