A couple of days ago I gave myself a talking to. As you might guess, writing was uppermost in this tirade. All I have managed since finishing my dissertation is what you see before you – my blog. I have sent out about four stories and I plan to send more but I haven’t created anything new. This is not good.
Anyway, an idea was rolling around in the back of my head and, as I lay me down to sleep, I mulled it over. Hours passed, the church clock ding-donged the time (at five past the hour. That clock needs winding …) and my story idea refused to germinate. It was too weak, I needed to leave it in a darkened room in my mind until I could find a way to graft it on to another idea and strengthen it. Frustrated, I fell asleep.
The following night I cracked open the door of the darkened room. No joy. Maybe it’s a stupid idea anyway! I huffed into bed, turned off the light, pressed my sulky face to the pillow and— aha! New ideas. Two new ideas for a short story.
I haven’t started writing yet but I’m feeling a mix of anticipation and anxiety. It’s similar to the feeling you get when a limb comes back to life after being asleep.
Eeeeeeeeeeee! Maybe my inner storyteller is waking up.
Shedward 