'Tis the Season (for burnout)
- Liz Flaherty
- 8 hours ago
- 4 min read
By Kristina Knight
It’s been an odd couple of years. Maybe four. Mostly likely right at three-and-a-half. Years where I couldn’t find the words. Literally. Story ideas? Plenty of ‘em. Characters? All over the place. Twists and turns? Everywhere. But when I would sit down at my desk to write, nothing.
I thought I was done. That the stories in my head were just destined to just live in my head.
It was frustrating. Demoralizing. I felt like a failure. To some extent, I’d always been a bit blase about my stories because they were just there. I could draft a 50,000 word novel within a month. Sure, I preferred six to eight weeks, but a month was doable. And a good thing, too, because I had deadlines. A lot of them. Deadlines for my books, deadlines for the dayjob, deadlines for blogs and freelance articles, and proof- or beta-reading for author friends. I was busy, but I loved words and words loved me…until they didn’t.
It wasn’t sudden but it also feels like the words just poofed one morning in late spring. Looking back, the words started to go about a year before that, and instead of listening to the warning signs I just plowed straight on forward. That late spring morning? It was the day I finally didn’t have any reserves left, no extra energy for a blog much less an actual plot twist. My brain just wanted to stop. Actually, scratch that “want”; my brain needed to stop. To rest.
In hindsight, I can see what happened - I stopped refilling my well. I went from book to book and contract to contract, and sometimes piled a contract on top of another one because words were my thing. I didn’t take into account the amount of writing and brain power needed for my dayjob as a grant writer. Each of them were between 75 and 100 pages of data and program development and, yes, storytelling about the need for them. Add 10-12 of those each year to the 4-6 novels I was writing and it’s no wonder my brain rebelled.
So I stopped. Not in one dramatic moment, but over several months I stopped opening my story documents. Stopped writing in my journal and writers notebook. I just stopped. I would read but it was hard to get into the stories. I was bored. Unhappy. Finally, Radioman told me I needed a hobby. But I’d had writing and it left, so why would I try that again? I got angry, I got sad, and maybe even a little depressed. And then, on a bit of a lark, I decided to try a new kind of art. I’d been seeing clips of a watercolor artist on YouTube and she made painting look fun. So I picked up a set of paints at a local craft store and gave it a whirl.
I loved it. So did my brain. Since January, I’ve painted my way through three sketchbooks and about 100 2.5x3.5 little “art cards”, and as I stretched my creative muscles to “do art” I found myself thinking about the characters in my head. Turning over story ideas. Even writing a few chapters of what I think will be a new book or series (Liz tells me it’s a good start and Liz doesn’t sugarcoat).
The past couple of years have been one of the scariest things to have ever happened to me. Since I was a little kid, I’d had stories in my head. Characters and situations and words just bubbling over. Suddenly, I had none. Shadows of characters. Hints of situations. I could even, if I pushed really hard, get the bones of an outline down on paper. But to actually write the story? It’s like I’d turned a corner and I could find words when I tried, but story was just gone.
Now, the characters and situations are back. A little stiff, sometimes, but they’re more than two dimensional shadows and the outlines have twists and turns and the voices are resilient and unique.
It’s the season for burnout - all the shopping and wrapping and obligations and writing on top of it and, once January comes, stressing over bills. ‘Tis the season for our brains to tell us to slow down and for us to keep right on pushing. Remember to give yourself rest. Remember to read just for fun. To take a walk outside and listen to the crunch of snow under your feet and smell the pine in the air. Give yourself grace and time. The words will be there after the holiday.
A cheating fiancé sends Camden Harris fleeing to her grandparents’ home in Missouri. When her ex follows, determined to win her back, Camden makes a deal with neighbor Levi Walters: they’ll pretend to be in love and she’ll support his plan to buy her grandparents’ land.
The boy from her childhood has grown up into an impressive man. His charm, good looks and sweet gestures make it difficult for Camden to remember this is fake. And Levi’s kisses only confuse her more.
Bio: Kristina Knight began her writing career as a radio and television journalist, working for NBC affiliates throughout the midwest as a reporter, anchor, and producer. After covering everything from a serial killer’s capture to the National Finals Rodeo, she decided to leave the TV biz in favor of writing stories she was passionate about. Kristina writes sassy contemporary romance novels; her books have appeared on Kindle Best Seller Lists. She loves hearing from readers, so feel free to email her at kristinaknightbooks@gmail.com!
