Over the last week or so I’ve made several attempts to write up a flash fiction, and while some ideas have come along, nothing has made it through my normal process entirely. I have a couple drafts done, but when I read them, I dislike them. They seem flat. Typical. A bit mundane.
I normally wouldn’t care about this, or bother mentioning it, but my postings have withered away to almost nothing, and that’s something I’m attempting to remedy (with no success). I’d like people to have a reason to swing by now and then, but I’ve not given them that reason, and no one else can. It obviously falls to me.
I’ll keep trying. Effort eventually leads to results.
As far as writing in general, I continue making progress on my book. I’m closing in on the final chapters now. Exciting stuff. Last week was a bit rough for progress, but this week has made up for it. It’s been interesting to see the story become more difficult from a writing point of view as I come closer to the end. As more things lock in and become permanent, I have less freedom. Fewer options. It’s been interesting struggling with that.
I’ve also been going through a bit of personal revelation. I’m starting to understand why I’m bothering with any of this at all. I’m beginning to see what I would like to become and the reasons behind it all. The more I think on it, the more I realize I want to write words that eventually reach people and help them, comfort them. I want to touch people’s lives (as pompous as that may sound), give them reason to believe in themselves, and inspire them to follow their dreams, whatever they may be.
How ironic that I’ve come to realize this at the tail end of my first book, a horror story. Oh well.
Also a little ironic that I’ve already decided on writing a second book to go with this first one in order to explore some of the characters further. Although, as of now, the path I’m on makes sense to me. I can see where it goes from here, where I am and where I want to be. Let these two horror novels be what they will. Let them teach me more about my processes, what I shouldn’t do and what I can do better. Maybe by the time I start moving into the literature I feel I’m supposed to write, would really like to write, my ability will be enough to find others.
And if not, I’m no worse for the wear.