Sometimes ideas trip over each other as they spill out of my fingertips and rush over the page. And sometimes (like now), there's nothing but me, some white space and a few crickets.
Through the fall and early winter, I wrote a lot. Story after story...and every one with a beginning, a middle, and an end! Some of them were even kind of not-bad (or so I thought at the time), and in an uncharacteristic burst of optimism, I submitted. Here, there, and everywhere: I sent my stories out into the world.
And now, as winter drags on, they're all slinking back home again.
Each one gets a once-over when they wander through the door, and without fail, I'm entirely underwhelmed. Where is the jaunty swagger and saucy attitude I thought I remembered? How did I fool myself into thinking that they had something special?
Welcome to this week's instalment of Mostly Fiction Monday. This time out, Stranger and I will be working our way through the alphabet; each theme will be "writer's choice", as long as it starts with the letter of the week. Today, "U is for...", which has turned out to be an invitation to my pity party. Sorry about that.