I’m still trying to write the third book of my trilogy (Beast-speaker). I have gone past two deadlines and am now on a third that will take me into the new year. I thank God for an understanding and kind publisher.

‘So, what’s the deal?’ I hear my readers ask. ‘Why is it taking so long?’

Thanks for your interest and flattering impatience, and my apologies for keeping you waiting. The thing is, the creative process is a strange beast. Those of us who are involved in the arts all have a different, unique to ourselves, way of going about things. Some writers can churn out 4 or 5 books a year. Some, even more than that! At the other end of the spectrum we have people like Isobel Carmody (12 years between books) and Markus Zuzak (13 years). So, considering all the possibilities, a few extra months doesn’t seem so bad.

I seem to be a one book a year person – at least that’s what I thought I was until now! I’d heard of the “second book syndrome” and had (foolishly, I now realise) congratulated myself that I’d not suffered that malady. Now I’m wondering if there is such a thing as a “third book syndrome”.

I want this book to be as satisfying to read as the other two. I want the story to end well. I want it to “sing”. So, I linger over every line, every paragraph, every page, every chapter, unwilling to move onto the next until I’m reasonably satisfied with the one I’m working on. I hear my mentors from my Master of Arts class saying, ‘Just write it without worrying about getting it right. It’s just the first draft. You will go back afterwards and correct it.’ And, that is such good advice. If you’re a new writer, I suggest you follow it. Unfortunately, my brain and heart and giblets aren’t wired that way.

Then there is the separate issue of life, stress and all the world’s ugliness. In the first half of the year, I had so much stress riding on my shoulders that I felt as though I was struggling to breathe. When I’m like that, the creative process takes umbrage, packs a suitcase and heads off into the sunset. The weeping doesn’t help.

Finally, I had a chat with the Old Boy. (Gosh, that sounds so civilized and reasonable, when in reality it involved some ranting and tears and deep sighs and a bit of shouting.) I had to downsize the stress before I went under.

My problem is that I want to fix the world and I am constantly reminded that I can’t. The more I tried to find a way to make things work, or be better, or get resolved, the more frustrated I became and the more (slightly) manic. It was a vicious Ferris Wheel ride, folks. 

I’ve heard that some writers can deal with their emotional stress by getting lost in their work. I have experienced that state of altered time, where I stop my writing to get some lunch and discover that it’s 5 o’clock.  However, to be in that zone the words have to flow. When the creative channel is blocked, or the muse has taken a sabbatical, then the words don’t come and there we have it: me staring at a blank computer screen sobbing quietly while berating myself for letting everyone down. It’s a vicious cycle.

Thank God, the words are now flowing more steadily and the story is growing. I am fairly confident the final deadline will be met. I still have my non-productive days but they occur less often and I find other things to do when they happen. I do some research, or chat with my Battle-master friend, or talk over the plot with the Wonder Dog, who thinks I’m brilliant.

So that is why it’s taking so long. Bear with me. It will be done.