Or is it? I've suffered something very close to a writer's block these past couple of weeks - and I don't get those; I love writing. The only other time I've tried something similiar was when I tried to make Tom do something he didn't want to do (fictional characters are pesky creatures with a mind of their own, I warn you). Then, yesterday, it dawned on me that perhaps I couldn't write anymore because I shouldn't. Perhaps the novel's simply done.
I think that's the explanation - but now I've got all these things I still haven't told about our sweet little carpenter. I begin to understand why authors write short stories!
I read and I write - everything from corporate to kink. My naughty fictional friends are always there to make my life interesting. And pester me, of course. Pesky creatures.