Under the steady pressure to promote my second novel, Paradise Dogs, I have laid aside writing The Bread of Heaven and returning to it now feels like climbing back into a wet bathing suit. The hot freshness of inspiration isn't there now. The trail is cold, and the swallows have flown back to Capistrano.
These mixed metaphors are a symptom of writer's block.
I have to have faith that if I go back and reread, tinker, tamper, and forge ahead, the story will revive for me. When you get back into a wet bathing suit, after all, it's cold and clammy at first, but then it warms to the wear and becomes comfortable again.
My fellow writers out there, what are your tricks for getting the swallows to return once the trail is cold?
