Writer's Block Is Evil But Not Unconquerable

So. Writer's block. It's a real thing, a real aggravating, maddening thing, and I've written about it a lot. Because it's real and aggravating and maddening, and when you're in the middle of it, writing about it is pretty much the only thing you can do. If you can even get it out. Yes, my friends, it is indeed possible to have writer's block when writing a blog post about writer's block.

Welcome to my life for the last few months.

But lately I've found myself thinking about writing. And not the "I really should be writing"-guilty thoughts, but the "I want to set aside time and write today"-proactive thoughts. And today, I set aside some time and I wrote.

Since the first part of The Witch of November is so messed up, I decided that I'm just going to start over. Not completely, mind you; just until the point where I haven't messed with it a whole bunch of times. You can read what I came up with if you click the jump.

(Disclaimer: the following was written in about 45 minutes and has not been edited. Tomorrow morning, it will be less tempting to gag at it and just delete the whole thing. Breaking out of writer's block requires baby steps, people.)

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January 26, 1877


Somehow, somewhere on the path of life, Lillian Blackstone had made a wrong turn. There was no other way to explain it. She’d taken a wrong turn, and now the only thing she could do was continue along this path, see where it led.

“You’re sure this is safe?” she asked for what was probably the fiftieth time.

If Mildred Albertson was annoyed with Lillian’s incessant questioning, it didn’t show. She lit the sixth and final candle before looking up and giving her new friend a calm smile. “Nothing is without risks, of course, but there are ways to minimize them.”

She dug into her satchel and produced two thick bundles of green leaves. She handed one to Lillian and kept the other for herself.

Frowning, Lillian sniffed the bundle. “Sage?”

“Sage is powerful, my dear.” She struck a match and held it to the bundle in Lillian’s hand. Once it began smoking, she set the match to her own. “We’ll use it to perform a blessing, to purify the space. Minimize the risks.”

Not for the first time, it struck Lillian that she was about to dive headfirst into something she in no way understood. Not a very comforting thought.

Sensing Lillian’s hesitation, Millie looked her friend in the eye. “You’re still uncomfortable with idea. We don’t have to do this now, Lillian. We can wait a little while. Until you’re ready.”

Until she was ready? She had a funny feeling she’d never truly be ready. It wasn’t like this something she’d decided to because she wanted to see what would happen. She was doing it because nobody could turn back time. She was doing it because nobody could bring the dead back to life. She was doing it because she missed him and was miserable without him and because this was the only option she had left.

“I know how scared you must be, Lillian,” Millie spoke up, her brown eyes warm, her face full of sympathy. “I was once in your shoes, remember.”

Of course Lillian remembered. How could she forget how terrible she’d felt for poor Millie when Caleb Albertson’s trawler went down in rough seas? She couldn’t forget how the townspeople had begun to gossip a few months later that Millie had started attending séances in order to talk to Caleb. And she most certainly would never forget the pitying tone of those voices saying, “Not only that, but the poor dear truly believes the séances work!”

Never in Lillian’s wildest dreams would she have ever expected to follow in Millie Albertson’s footsteps. But here it was, three years later, and her Josiah was gone. A sudden winter storm had taken his lobster vessel and her crew. Lillian was left a twenty-three-year-old widow, lost and alone, with her entire life ahead of her. A life that she should have shared with Josiah.

When Millie Albertson knocked on her door to offer condolences, Lillian couldn’t help asking about the séances. Did they really work? If they did, would it be possible to contact Josiah, too?

And now here they were, contacting Josiah. Or at least attempting to. Lillian and Millie had turned Lillian’s parlor into a makeshift altar room. The furniture was shoved along the walls and wherever they could find space. An old card table of Josiah’s now stood in the center of the room, a heavy velvet cloth so purple it was almost black covering it. Millie had arranged white pillar candles on top of the cloth, five equidistant from each other and encircling a sixth.

Lillian was terrified.

Millie was looking at her expectantly, waiting for her permission to continue. They should by all rights stop right this very second, but Lillian knew she couldn’t. She needed to know if it was possible. If she could talk to Josiah again. She needed to know that he was all right. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “I’d like to continue.”

A relieved and excited Millie talked Lillian through the blessing and then went about setting up for the ritual. Out of her satchel tumbled herbs that Lillian recognized--red sandalwood and fresh lavender--and many more that she didn’t. She watched with an almost morbid fascination as Millie ground the herbs with a mortar and pestle, transferred the ingredients to a small silver dish,, and dribbled a couple drops of oil onto the mixture. Then she set a match to it.

An explosion of fragrance filled the room. Lillian realized with awe that her friend had just whipped up a batch of homemade incense.

She sank into the folding chair opposite Millie, who gave her a wide smile. “Shall we begin?”

After one more swift moment of thought, Lillian nodded. “What do we do?”

“We call to the spirits,” Millie answered, reaching across the table for Lillian’s hands, “and we wait for an answer.”