Thank You

I just wanted to say what an amazing year it's been. A year ago I made a silly resolution I wasn't planning on sticking to because I never do stick to my resolutions. But I tried it out, and I succeeded.. Not every blog was a story. A lot of it was just a paragraph of mumbo jumbo. Why then, did I continue? 'Cause it prevented writer's block from setting it. No matter what I wrote down, I no matter how it came out, there was always something there and as a writer that's relieving to know. I don't know how many people followed them word for word, but the point was I did it for me and I turned blank walls into sentences. I do not think I will continue this this year. Well actually, I very well might. But I think it best to drop this blog in all of its confusingness. I write for myself and I am glad to have been able to share that with you this past year. Hopefully the next will bring just as many stories. I hope to focus more on my novels rather than random bits and pieces that get me distracted. Maybe you will see them in the sores one day. Thank you.

Writing Woes

Writing comes and goes. Certainly, unless you're in the mood to write, a lot of it can turn out poor, or even horrid. Quality should be valued over quantity, but sometimes, you have to give yourself permission to write badly. That way you can learn, edit and improve. It's the will power more than anything that keeps you going, and it is a hope to avoid such long, writing droughts that stories, or random thoughts and musings, can be written down - whether in ten or a thousand words. It's is not so much the stories or the whatever you classify them as that are important, but the value of what you are doing. What you are trying to achieve and prove to yourself you can do. It is an exercise to keep the blood in the typewriter keys and the ink in your veins. It is one hell of a task.

[152 words]

What is it a writer does?

What is it a writer does? Hide in a dark corner, never to come out? Work by candle and ink, never keyboard and mouse. Do they take over the coffee shops, scribble out plans on a dozen napkins, mull thoughts over ten coffees or other hot drinks? Are they the ones who take a stroll in the park, sit down on a log somewhere and just read from other novels, hunting for inspiration? Maybe they don't read at all. Just sit and stare, apparently doing nothing while their mind is at work tirelessly on plot, formulating characters as you walk by, maybe a characteristic based off you. Do they have boxes and boxes of scrap paper, all used? A million excercise books half filled? A hundred chewed pencils, highlighters of every colour. Or is it just one pen and pad, they hold?

[142 words]

Writer's Ramblings

The cursor linked a steady rhythm on the blank page, the quietness of the house penetrating, ideas empty. But people claimed there was no such thing as writer's block. As long as you kept up your writing, as long as you wrote something, anything, it would still count. Writer whatever nuisance is on your mind, write from your stream of consciousness, and something will eventually come up, some usable story idea, some spark. Thing is I could be here for hours if I were to do that, denying each idea as something worthless. I could write a novel on my thoughts alone, except of course no one would read something like that - every single thought on my mind? I guess you wouldn't really get writer's block then surely, because then you'd just ramble on and on, without much care because, again, no one as going to read it. But where was the joy in that? The accomplishment? Aside from being a completely boring novel, you'd just have wasted precious years when you could have been working on your other manuscripts. And you might have one, three good ideas in that to come out of a story? Or would there be more? Of course you'd never be able to truly tell unless you did it... which I had no incentive to. Or did I?

[224 words]

Unwanted

She fiddled the pen in her hands, wondering what to put down onto the paper. She had read not envy, but admire, those other writers. The types of writers that could turn written words into whispers. She sighed, rolling the pen around once again. The ideas were supposed to be all around her - in every object, every person and every tune. So why were they so hard to find most days? Just to string together an idea to add to her short collections was proving difficult, sometimes repetitive. Why? For some, the ideas came every minute of every hour, many left discarded for a later date. Why? Being the writer she believed herself to be, were the ideas so minimal, so flat? Why? Her imagination was so blank. Was it tiredness that overwhelmed her? Despite the shows she watched, despite the books she read, despite the stories she wrote for inspiration... the ideas were still turning to dead ends. Like an unwanted writer's block, those dead ends were unwanted.

[170 words]