I feel so disconnected from my writing lately… like I’ll come up with an idea, and it will be so long between that spark and when I have the real time to tackle it, that the fire burns out.
Enough sparks dying makes it feel like even trying to light a fire is pointless.
Since I have two hours set aside for writing this afternoon, I thought, maybe I could write a story about how pointless it feels to try to raise my voice in story?
So I outlined a robot flash fiction in my head, full of pathos and clever ideas.
And now, I’m just sitting here…
The clock is running out on the time I’ve set aside for writing today. Maybe I could carve out more, if I tried. But it’s hard to care about trying?
It was only a week ago that Neil Gaiman read one of my stories and called it good. But I don’t expect that to ever happen again.
I know there are people who read and enjoy my words. Intellectually, I know my words have value, and it’s worth capturing my perspective, which is unusual, somewhere people can find it.
But, also, I’ve already written a lot of stuff. If people want my words, they can find them.
I have a first sentence, and the whole thing is outlined and it’s just a piece of flash. So maybe if I stare at it long enough, the part of my brain that actually writes stories will whimsically decide to cooperate.
Maybe.
That part of my brain is pretty sad these days.