Natasha Fondren

I know that’s not a real word. I just spent a couple hours reading through one of pseudonym’s old works that is going to be released in a new format in the great big, wide world. So I got another chance at tweaking, which is a good review for me, since I’m currently writing book five of that series.

The problem is that I was, without a doubt, a better writer then: three years ago.

I don’t get it. I simply don’t get it. I’m completely perplexed. I’m depressed. I’m frustrated. I’m embarrassed.

I’m getting worse. Much worse, no contest, no subjectivity, I’m getting worse.

All the practice, all the reading, all the writing… and for what? And good lord, this is from the period when I was hacking out 56K a month! I have all the time in the world to fuss, now, and I’M GETTING WORSE!

I was hoping that by the end of this post, I’d have a way to spin this into something positive, something uplifting.

But I don’t.

Back to the drawing board, I guess. I think a movie is called for. Maybe two. Any suggestions?

What do you do when your writing’s frustrating you? Ever been afraid you’ve lost the magic touch?