So I have a new flash piece debuting over at 6S today. It is one of my personal favorites, so I decided to make a "Wordle" out of it to celebrate myself, sing myself (--sorry, Whitman).
Although I keep saying that I'm NOT writing, I guess I AM writing little snatches of stuff. Dialogue. Six sentence flash pieces. Two pages of a story that has just stopped. And I keep writing in my journal and blogging (twice).
I have the ideas floating. I have the time (basically). The energy is helped along with coffee. I feel an urgency in my heart. There seems to be something just below the surface ready to explode on the screen...in the ink...along the outer edges.
I just turned my head (left) and saw this: "HOW TO SURVIVE: Writer's Block, Rejection by Editors, Your Absent Muse, and Yankee Aunts" (Oxford American, issue 66)
I could only wish my muse was absent. My muse is so present that "it" is creeping into every little thing that I write. Maybe this is normal, but it's getting too predictable for me. I don't want to hear, "OH? Another story about so and so?"
Maybe it is a form of Writer's Block that I have? I don't know.
Those editors and Yankee aunts have got to wait for another day.