When I wrapped up in fantasies about being published, I often find that I am dragging myself to the computer. All these fantasies are self-centered– my wealth and fame dominate.
But the truth is, that’s not why I am writing the novel. It has a revisionist theme questioning whether sex with strangers is altogether benign. It is a response to years I spent in Manhattan, attempting to fit in with the gay community, and finding myself largely shut out.
When we realize the deeper reason we are writing, the words come more easily. The question is “Why am I really doing this?” Don’t be surprised if the answer is transcendent– it just may evaporate your block.