I've had inspiration for characters, for some scenarios for my plot. Wonderful idea that make me giddy because they're something that will be so fun to write about. Creepy carnivals and circuses, supernatural beings, near death experiences, ghosts making you breakfast. I mean, it's all I could hope for and I can't wait to write it.
Outside my head, with pen and paper (or rather, computer and keyboard) there is no movement. I stare at a blank page.
I don't have any idea where I'm going with my novel. What's the plot? What's happening with my character? Her wants and needs are a mystery, there isn't a solid plan through the book of what's going to happen. I have a mysterious beginning idea but I need to write the end first. But I can't write the end without writing the middle. And I don't have a middle! AHHH.
There are pieces, and ideas, and things. But these things are acting like oil and water. They refuse to converge into one liquid so that I may begin a proper second draft. I'm stuck and I'm just sitting here like, "Come on brain, think of things. Come on brain, be so smart."
I've come to the conclusion that writing a novel is basically jumping into the unknow. It's fascinating, and you can't stop swimming because you must see what's around the next corner. It's new and excited, but it's often really boring too. It's dark and creepy. Scary things lurk just out of sight.