I used to write a lot of short stories. Sometimes I was really lucky and they just unspooled like gifts from the universe. Generally, I have a starting point and an ending point and that's all I need. But I've been struggling with a dark little story since October. I want to finish it so I can complete a new collection of short stories. It's the title story, so I can't just leave it out.
But I've been thinking about how lucky I am that I can still write. I know a woman, multiple Pushcart Prize nominee, creative writng teacher, would-be novelist. She's younger than I am, somewhere in her early 40s, I think, although she might be younger. She's got an eye for photography. She can paint. But since contractng long covid, she can't hold a thought in her head.
She's extremely frustrated and has simply quit writing until she has her memory back. And of course, she has that niggling fear--what if I never get it back?
Keep writing until then.
In the meantime, I have to wait until I'm out of Amazon pre-order jail (next month). Once I am, expect to see a lot of books coming up.
This cold, wet winter has been good for hunkering down and writing!
I'm starting to have moments when I grope for words. They always come but what if, one day, the words DON'T come. I banish that thought as soon as it comes into my head because I have no plan B. Writing is it.