I had a pretty decent idea for a short story – but, as usual, no time to start writing it – yet. Now, those that know me know that I am so preoccupied with organization, I walk a shadowed line that exists somewhere between Librarian Of The Year and “Hoarders” candidate. So what did I do? I made a spontaneous decision to do away with the little bits and pieces of paper, the endless notebooks, and the leaking pens that stain my fingers blue. Instead, I opened up a word doc and started typing out the concept. You know, so I wouldn’t “lose” it. And, rather than writing “Short Story Concept,” I typed “Shit Story Concept.” This…this does not bode well.
I’m deep into literary theory and riding the edge to the end of the longest stretch of my academic studies. Now on to my (hopefully) MFA – but if I keep writing “shit stories” I may not even get that nod. Good grief.
Self doubt crept in. I hate that son-of-a-bitch. He does nothing but weigh me down. I was running when he started rearing his head. You see, running is my “deep-thinking” time – and self-doubt isn’t invited to THAT particular party. However, self-doubt doesn’t give a slick-god-damn for invitations and he crashed it anyway. I lay all the blame for the “shit story” slip up on his shoulders, the useless ogre. And yes, in my world, self-doubt is a he. He even has a name: Jackson. Why? Because it’s pretentious as hell and holds a certain aura of arrogance. In any case, this is my party – and I’ll name the nefarious, intangible guests whatever the hell I want.
One bright note from that bitch of a run: I’ve come to the conclusion that everyone has a “story” waiting to be told. And 90% of everything a writer puts on paper is total shit. But then there’s that 10% that we all keep reaching out to catch. Only way to grab that dragon’s tail is to keep right on friggin’ writing.
Eyes on the world people. I leave you with this observation: