Okay, I think I may have a handle on this thing. Something occurred to me this morning - I promised myself I wouldn't start anything new until I get some of this backlog of writing into shape to be sent out into the world. I mean, come on, I have like 13 books in various stages of 'ready' - which is to say not ready because if they were really ready, someone somewhere would've wanted one of them by now. And starting something new right now just feels like adding to that steaming pile of unfinished.
I spent the better part of the summer whipping a manuscript into shape only to decide I wasn't going to try to publish it.
Now I'm in the middle of editing the one book that was the hardest for me to edit.
And I hate editing.
I don't know how the rest of you were raised, but I had to clean my plate before I was allowed to get up from the table. The meat I never had a problem with. No prob on the starches either. But the vegetables? OMG, I did everything possible to not have to eat those. I would hem and haw. I would whine. I resorted to stuffing them along the edge of my plate and then making sure I was the one to clear the table - until I got caught. I even went so far as to swallow some of them whole with a generous gulp of milk so I wouldn't have to actually taste the loathsome things. (This worked best with peas because they're really just green pills, and if I could swallow hard aspirin, I could certainly choke down soft peas.)
In order to get to the fun stuff in life - like dessert and playing outside - I had to eat my peas.
In order to get to the fun stuff in writing - like creating new stories - I have to do my editing.
So in some immature, foot-stomping, breath-holding, pissy-bitch fashion, I've been refusing to eat my peas which leaves me stuck at the proverbial table, staring down at what are now incredibly cold and nasty veggies, whining about how I want to go play.
Hell, even worse, I already made a deal with myself that if I got this particular manuscript done I could go play with the NaNoWriMo kids. (Deal making is the scourge of parenting, btw, but that's a subject best left to another day.)
Basically, I have to eat my peas. Now if I could just find a glass of milk large enough to wash down 300 pages of edits before November 1st.
And don't try to talk me out of it. I fixed this plate and I'm going to eat it all, even if I have to sit here 'til Christmas.