I’ve always thought of myself more as a writer than a speaker, but lately the reverse is true.
I can talk and talk, but words feel as if I’m forcing them through gauze. If there’s some kind of pipeline from my thoughts to my fingers, it’s broken. Ideas are easy and execution is murder.
Two short stories sit unfinished. One, I understand why. I’m stuck at a tough scene; I know something has to happen—a character changes, and is revealed to a degree—but I haven’t figured out how to make it work. This doesn’t bother me so much. It’s a problem I’ve placed to the back of my mind, and I’ll gnaw on it occasionally, but I won’t try to choke it down.
The other piece is bristling with potential. I love the world, but I’m second-guessing how to enter it. Where on the timeline? And through whose eyes? Trouble trouble.
And then there’s the novel, the idea I’ve been nurturing for years, and only ever managed to write a few pages. I keep telling myself to work on short stories, to keep spitting out flash ’til I’ve gotten just a few more things published, but this all might be perpetual. If I put my mind to it—actually, without even trying, I could delay this forever.
I’m a little frustrated today, and I think it’s really spiking when I think about my writing. Chicago was amazing this weekend, but I have a few hassles to deal with because of the trip. Calls to make and a wounds to poke, mostly.
Thankfully Artprize starts soon, and as part of the street team I think I’ll be plenty busy for a few weeks. Maybe throwing myself into it, surrounded by creative people creating, can help me take a pickaxe to this mental bottleneck.