Not back in the saddle, but at least walking alongside the horse

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Lately, I’ve been thinking about writing, and this is a good thing. I can’t put my finger on why I haven’t felt like putting pen to paper in the last six months, especially when I’m surrounded by so many prolific and talented people, but the drive just hasn’t been there. Even with deadlines, now come and gone, setting aside time to open up the notebook and create hasn’t been a priority.

 I hate that.

 I read blogs of people I admire and see friends around me submit and sell and get their due accolades and I get excited – for them.  This just could be the slump of winter and the general craziness of life, but honestly, it’s not like things are hopping in the “Wish You Were Me” category.

There’s a spark missing, the one that pokes the muse, like on a gas stove. The stove works, there’s gas available, but the sparky thing won’t give it the heat it needs.  When I open up my notebooks and flip through the pages of worlds and lives, I can hear the ticking of the ignition switch but nothing makes a flame.

Really what I see makes me screw up my face. I know the stories and ideas can be refined into something people want to read, but the *effort* that it would take just seems so tiring. I think it’s just the winter blahs talking.

So today, I’ve brought one of my bigger notebooks to work and it’s mostly CDI stuff, which a few short story snippets waiting to be fleshed out – if only I knew where they were headed.  I want to work on Never, but I think today will be Cat Dragged Inn.  It’s the oldest unfinished and it such a great story, there’s no reason it should remain in the state it’s in.

 It’s time to start pulling my own weight around here and get back to the business of writing. It’s time to breath life into dead trees.  The fact that I’ve been blogging more lately, even if it is other people’s stuff, is a good start. It gets me writing in small doses.

Now, when last we saw Penda, she’d just arrived in Detroit. Jasmine and the other ladies of the boarding house had taken her out for an evening on the town, and for the first time she felt a part of something glamorous. A strange man got a little fresh with her, thrust something into her hand and screamed, “They want to be with YOU!”, before stepping in front of a streetcar.

 I think that’s a good place to pick up things …

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Just this fox. I'm a writer of horror and dark fantasy. I totally don't brag about it. The latter statement is an utter lie.
  • Micah
    February 26, 2010 - 1:00 pm

    Up for an old school write-in? Let me know where and when.

But how do you really feel?

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