I’ve been in a bit of a rut since I announced the latest Forest Town Chronicles story would be released in January. I’d completed the first draft and assumed a couple of weeks would be needed to get it ship-shape. BIG MISTAKE. I realise now that putting a release date on it added pressure on me to hit the deadline and caused me to doubt everything I’ve been doing.

And because of this everything else seems to have ground to a halt as far as writing goes. Trying to get that one story finished has foregone everything else I’ve been working on. Hell, I haven’t even posted to my blog this year, until now.

There’s a classic Simpsons scene that succinctly shows the pit I’ve put myself in — the one where the whole of Springfield is out searching for buried treasure after being given false information of its whereabouts from the cat burglar.

And that’s kind of how it’s been with that story. I’ve been so desperate — no, hellbent — to get it up on Amazon, I’ve let it consume me to the point that I can no longer the tree for the forest (Forest Town pun intended). I’ve dug my hole, and when I couldn’t find a way out I’ve dug some more.

* Dig up stupid! *

The best thing to do is to put a bit of distance between me and that particular MS. I’ve got a novel that’s calling to me, so I’m just going to go with the flow. After all, that should be one of the perks of self-publishing.

And going to my writing group today helped. It was no surprise the workshop’s theme was motherhood, on Mother’s Day. One of the exercises was to think of a woman who was like a mother to us, though not the real thing. Not sure quite where it came from, but this was where it led me:

Ode to Wonder Woman

You didn’t know it,

but you were a mother to me.

I used to watch you every week

on Saturday tea-time TV.

I’d wonder at your achievements —

how strong and brave you were,

thinking how cool it would be

to have a mum like her.

It was only as the years went by

it had nowt to do with nurture,

your star-spangled hot-pants, knee-length boots,

and heaving bosom driving me to a fervour.

But enough of that, you’ll be glad to hear

there’s no Oedipal end in sight —

just an innocent infatuation with Linda Carter

each and every Saturday night.