A Writer's Notebook, One-Thousand-Eight-Hundred-And-Ninety-Five

I wonder, sometimes, if I am really writing flash fiction or if I am just writing strange little prose poems instead and calling them flash.  In the end, I don't know that there is a real difference, to be honest, but I do wish that I were better at writing things that felt more narrative, I suppose, that felt as if they had plots and events unfolding and a real sense of beginning, middle, end.  It may just be that I am not inclined towards that kind of writing, that my mind works in different ways.  I see stories in a strange way, I know, so it is not all that odd that I write things which don't always fit what most people might consider as a story.  It may also be that I am developing and learning, as I have said before.  I am not certain. I do hope that I am making my way towards something, though.  That has to be the case, I think.  I don't believe I could work on these things each day without it being a process of change and growth.

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