A while back - actually (appallingly) it was several years ago - I decided to take part in an art book circle. The idea was that everyone would go out and buy a blank book, and then we'd send them around. As each new book reached us, we'd fill in a few page with whatever sort of art we felt like doing, and by the time our own books wandered back home they'd have an entry from everyone else in the circle.
The group that came up with this was composed of people from a particular message-board-turned-mailing-list, based on a common love of the Bordertown books (edited by Terry Windling). Since my abilities in the visual arts are... well, honestly, pretty abysmal... I've been writing short stories for my entries. Only I've run into an odd sort of writer's block: I can't write in that world anymore. I just can't get my head inside the setting. (To read a piece I did for one of the earlier books, take a look at Tanilith - that'll give you a decent idea of the setting, too.)
I'm not really sure what to do about this. I have three books sitting on my shelves, waiting for a bit of time and attention, and doubtless feeling dreadfully lonely and neglected. I really hate the idea of passing them along without adding anything to them. On the other hand, I don't seem to be able to do the sorts of short writings that I was doing for the earlier art books. So there they sit, in limbo.
So let's see if a deadline helps. If I haven't come up with anything usable by, let's say, next Thursday, I'll send them along anyway. You're my witnesses.