I’d rather be home with the flue than have writer’s block.

I’m experiencing some of the worst writer’s block. Ever. It’s so bad, I’d rather be nauseous. And I usually don’t want that over anything. But I’ve come to the end of my Act One rewrite and realized — I’m in a pickle. Act Two needs to begin with my character experiencing a false hope. But how can he if he can’t remember anything?

I’m struggling to fix this. Struggling to figure out how to change the ending of Act One so Act Two can continue without any bumps. But. I. Can’t. Fix. It. I’m reaching into the depths of my mind (deep, like back where the memories of my birth lie) and am coming out empty handed.

I want to push through this. Must, because if I don’t, then I’ll become victim to that cruel writer’s block.

But.

Am I trying to finish something that isn’t ready to be written? This story has given me such grief, more than my first, and I’m beginning to wonder if it needs to sit for a bit. To be put on a shelf while I work on book three. The thought of that happening terrorizes me. Does that mean I’ve failed? That MARKED refuses to be written? That my skill couldn’t compete against a blocked mind?

Maybe. Then again, maybe not. Timing is everything, and if it’s not MARKED’s time to be written, then forcing something from it will only produce frustration. What I do know is that whatever book, whatever story I must tell in this moment, in this season, is the story I will tell. Perhaps that’s Oliver’s story. Perhaps it’s Breslin’s.

Whosever it is, I’m listening.

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