Two years after leaving the island, leaving behind a great part of my old life and reinventing myself as a new, happier man, the part of my brain which chucked idea after idea at me on a regular basis seems to have gone to sleep. Could it be that I don't need to escape anymore, that I've created life in my own image and don't need to do so on the page anymore?
It's a scary thought. I always saw myself as writer first, everything else second. Now I've grown complacent in a customer service job, and I live for the weekend trek to the bars.
But there's hope yet. It's just not easy to come by. I sat with my notebook and tried to pinpoint just when Legacy of Olympus went wrong. The more I try to fit into the mold I'd originally created for it, the more I realise that I'm a different person now on the inside as well as the outside and that I can't write like I used to. Brain chemistry has shifted, shifting thought processes with it. The first hundred or so pages are good. It's good work that I've done recent enough for it to still be current. But then I tried to recycle bits and pieces from the past, perform plastic surgery on words which are better amputated from the whole.
I need to forget everything I knew about where the story was going. I need to forget San Baptiste with its politics and science and follow Patrick. This is Patrick's journey, after all. It might all be about Raeith on the surface, but Patrick is the human element which carries the story forward. It's his quest for freedom.
I think it's time to give up on writing as an escape, and write because I enjoyed it and I miss it. And because I really want to finish Legacy, even if it never makes me any money. I owe the story that much.