I spent three hours in a car today, driving highways and generally thinking about all the important things in life: the infinite future, the ambitions that would actually hurt to lose, and what to do about the dryer that ate one of my favorite socks. Because I’m a dramatic little monster.
The plan for today was to write the final piece of First Haunt. Then I decided I had better things to do then spend the last few hours of my day knitting myself into a magnificent thneed of stress. It turns out no one needs a thneed of stress. No one even needs a thneed.
The next plan was to apologize for not giving you the final piece of First Haunt. But, I decided it was better to make a promise: It is coming, and I’m going to enjoy writing it when I’m not bone-tired.
Finally, I settled on finally admitting, out loud, that attempting to write a short story every week has not been as liberating as I had hoped. I changed some things around on this blog last month. I enjoyed the experiment. I learned some very good things, and have stopped panicking when page counts get too high. I pulled a lot of good out of it.
But it’s time to go back.
There’s a reason writing flash fictions every day has worked out so well for me. It’s fun. It’s freedom wrapped inside responsibility, or maybe responsibility wrapped inside freedom. It’s a good way to practice, to pick up ideas, to see which ones cling to your fingers and which ones are easily left behind.
And while I have the urge to rearrange all my habits and reorder my life, it’s not the time. I have too many other transitions underway.
My blog was supposed to be a playground, and I accidentally tried to turn my sandbox into a gallery. It’s not that some of my sandcastles aren’t pretty. It’s just that this is not what this blog was made for.
Thanks for bearing with me through all the madness of the last month.
Some experiments were always meant to explode.