Radio Silence

by Betsy Ashton

Betsy Ashton, born in Washington, DC, was raised in Southern California where she ran wild with coyotes in the hills above Malibu. She protested the war in Vietnam, burned her bra for feminism, and is a steadfast Independent. She is a writer, a thinker, the mother of three grown stepchildren, companion and friend. She mentors writers and writes and publishes fiction. Her first mystery, Mad Max Unintended Consequences, was published in February 2013. The second in the series, Uncharted Territory, A Mad Max Mystery, came out in April 2015. In her spare time, she is the president of the state-wide Virginia Writers Club. She loves riding behind her husband on his motorcycle. You’ll have to decide for yourself if and where she has a tattoo.

December 14, 2009

It’s been nearly three weeks since my last post. Sounds like the start of an AA confession, doesn’t it? In a way, it is.

I have several reasons, er, excuses, for my silence.

  • Thanksgiving
  • Christmas decorating
  • My husband’s surprise birthday party
  • Christmas cards
  • Christmas shopping
  • Check, check, check, check. Not the last one. I finished my shopping before Halloween.

    But there is a real-er reason. WRITER’S BLOCK.

    I couldn’t write a thing for those weeks. Not the Christmas letter. Not a word of revision in a novel. Not a blog entry. NOTHING.

    Then I confessed the block to Edna Whittier, a fellow writer. She gave me a kick in the pants. The next morning, writer’s block was gone.

    Snapped off the Christmas letter. Wrote a near-final essay for NPR. And am now digging into Max 1 (again! Sigh) to fix the problems an agent was kind enough to point out.

    And I’m working through the reading slush pile as well.

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    2 Comments

    1. Joanne

      I've found with writer's block that sometimes I just have to sit down and write, anything, something, and in awhile, the words start flowing again. Happy writing!

    2. Betsy Ashton

      I totally agree. There is an old joke that turns out to be true.

      A writer sits at his typewriter (I said it was an old joke) and can't write a word. Finally, he types in The. He sits for a while longer, then finishes the sentence: hell with it.