The Difficult Year

It’s difficult pinning your person to a verb.  I am a writer who has not done enough writing this year.  Or the year before.  I haven’t published enough, haven’t built a following, haven’t engaged enough with potential readers.  I haven’t built my brand.

I wrote seven slim stories to completion this year, and started the first paragraphs on dozens.  I followed those false starts out to different paths and found every one of them well trod and trite and boring.  I don’t want to be bored by what I write.  Stories are meant to thrill.

It has been a difficult year.  It seems it’s been that way for many.

I don’t know how to make the next year better.  I want to write more.  I want to publish more.  I know that the megan from this year would be impressive to the one from ten years ago, but perspective is hard in the middle of the forest.

Next week, I will finish a story.  Maybe I’ll write the end and work backwards from there.  The week after, I’ll do another.  I’ll be okay if it sucks.  Maybe I’ll try to make it suck.  I think I work better when I don’t care about the outcome.  I want to fall back in love with writing.  It will be difficult, but the work is important.  Not to the world at large, no.  I think the earth will keep turning if I don’t manage to find an end to a well read fairytale princess building a Studebaker Avanti.  But it’s important to me.  I hang my hat on fairytales.  I’d be lost without them.

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