A Writer Becoming a Storyteller
“Can you see it?” he said, and he twisted to catch the light.
He’s taller than I am and I have to squint, keep the light raking over his skin, and strain against the glare. The room’s hot, and I rip the sweat out of my eyes with the heel of my hand, then narrow my eyes again.
He’s shaking, his breath shallow. “Can you? Can you see it?”
I don’t need to tell you of the epic failure I had in implementing my plan over the weekend, right? Of course not. You knew that before you came over. You knew I wouldn’t make it. Heck, you might have even known before the weekend.
This is becoming an issue I can’t seem to get my head around.
Well, here we go. This is it. The big weekend, where I tackle trying to get back on the writing horse. Where I try to see whether my plants will right the list in the ship of my story enough to make me want to sail it again.
If it works, it’ll be a launch point toward the story I originally planned to tell. If it doesn’t…well, I guess it’s just more of the same.
I’ve had to force myself to put together a strategy for getting back in the writing chair. Isn’t that sad? But not having one hasn’t panned out at all. It’s also yielded no results. I’ve got nothing to show for nothing; how’s that?
But I’m onto something now and I think it’s sort of cool.
Here’s the plan.
Well, I’d love to come and report that I made a huge breakthrough and the reason I’ve been so silent so long (sorry! sorry!) is because I’ve been busy writing.
I can’t say that, though. It’s not true. It’s just real life getting in my way.
