Would That I Might

At times I will have an idea for a story that feels like it is not going to be all that useful, and then I find a way to tell the story which changes it entirely.  That was my experience today.  I had a thought to do with a house being robbed in an unusual way and I was not really certain what to do with it other than to present the fact of the thing, but after considering it for a while, I realized that I could make it into something else that would work on a number of other levels if I made it a report from a community organization about the crime and how to prevent further incidents.  I think the result is a lot better than what would have come out if I had just stuck with telling a more direct version of the same essential story.

Is it too little? I know it is not too much, but it could be enough or less than enough but only just less, only the bit less that becomes more, that becomes the want for a bit more, for the last of it, the final satisfaction. It may be that is true or it may be I am wrong and it is not enough at all. I don't believe I am able to tell, There is too much else in my way.

I am doing pretty well with writing stories lately, as I have said numerous times of late.  It never ceases to be somewhat surprising to me that I am still able to keep at it to this degree.  Even when I have faltered in the past week or two, it has never been more than a night when I wasn't able, one way or another, to do something that felt genuine and not just like I was doing it to get done with the work.  The last few nights I've actually felt myself really going into the flow with the stories more easily.  I have talked about this a lot recently, but the feeling that I am close to some kind of shift or progress is very palpable.  Of course, it may be that I am just not seeing what has already shifted, or it could be that I will find myself having a great deal of difficulty very soon precisely because I am at the point where something is shifting in a way that requires I discover something new; of course, if that happens, it will just be the falter and stru...

It was not pleasant but that may be good, or not bad, at least, may be part of it and needed, required, the way it will be. I do not know. It hurt.  I am still hurting. I do not feel right or well and I can't know if it can't be different, if it can be better. I do not mind it being difficult or even painful if it is part of healing.

The story that I wrote tonight is a bit more realistic than is typical for me.  It does not include a supernatural or fantastic element, but is actually drawn from an experience I had a few years ago.  In some ways, it kind of feels weird to be writing something of this sort, and that, itself, is also something that a part of me recognizes as odd.  I had the idea and was a bit hesitant about it, initially, was trying to think about how to take it into a different direction, perhaps, by adding an other worldly element of some kind, but in the end I put that aside and embraced it as it was, if only to push myself to be more flexible as a writer.

Choosing Both It can go here and there, too and be both and that is fine. Each exists, now, each is there and they are fine, are each fine, are connected and conversing and, still, seperate, alone, independent. That is not a contradiction. It is just a condition of what things are, of how it has come to be.

There are times when I write a story and I am kind of conflicted about it.  The story I wrote tonight is one that I feel has a lot going on and I think it is quite good in some ways, but I also recognize that it may not exactly be clear and entirely sensible in some ways.  I think there is a certain degree of absurdity in it that is natural to my work but which I worry about, as it does require a leap to accept that things are not going to follow a normal plot structure or work the way you might imagine.  In the story tonight, a couple are having an argument which is interrupted by the coincidental appearance of a god outside there house.  It is, as I said, an odd story, and there is a degree to which it is built on getting the argument to seem like the focus of the story and then just throwing the entire thing in another direction.  The question is how well that works and how well I am able to land the story.  Those are not easy things for me to determine ...

I do not trust it I do not know if it is good or if it is worth  having certainty that it will work out. I do not want to be stuck waiting, though, if waiting is not more than hope. There is nothing but the waiting and no idea when it ends or how or if or what is there. I do not trust that. I can't be alright waiting and waiting, but there is nothing else and I am not alright. I will admit that. I have said it before. It is not good and I can't say what to do about that. I don't trust it, though. Maybe, if I did I would be fine, or maybe the problem is that I trusted it once and now I know better but that does not change it.

As I have said before, there are times when I find myself sitting down to write a story without really having much of an idea for what I want to write.  In thinking about that, I have tried to come up with some strategies that I can use in responding to that lack of an idea.  One of the strategies I have found very helpful is one that I got from the memoirist Frank McCourt.  A number of years ago, I saw McCourt giving a talk and he was discussing his experiences as a teacher in the New York City public school system.  At one point he mentioned that he had a great deal of difficulty getting his students to write, until he told them that they could avoid handing in their written assignments if they wrote him a letter explaining there excuse.  He did not really care about the excuse, at least not in terms of plausibility or anything of that sort.  It was just a feint to get the students writing, and the resulting letters were often extremely inventive and show...

I did not wait Most times, I do, I get distracted or just choose to put it aside, to do anything instead, to indulge or wait, but I did not, not tonight. It may be that I knew, that I had it in my head, was ready, was in gear and ready. I don't know. That is a part, I know it is, and it is true, but it is not enough. I've had times when I was ready and I did nothing. Tonight it went a different way. I wonder why, though I will settle for having no answer if I can make this change one that I maintain.

I have been struggling to try and express the shift I am feeling in terms of my fiction writing, and it has been rather difficult.  In part this is because I am not certain it really is a shift in the work so much as it is a shift in my own relationship to writing fiction, generally.  This is the first time I've really dedicated myself to writing fiction in this way, outside of specific projects, and I think it has forced me to confront my insecurity about knowing what to do with a story.  I mean, a poem has a much broader set of possibilities, in some ways, and it is not hard for me to just write a poem even if I start it without a clue what I am going to write about.  Fiction feels very different in that sense, which is probably just a matter of my own experience and perspective, but I can't help conceiving of it as something that is different about writing fiction.  I feel like that is something I've been breaking through lately, at least to some degree....

I almost forgot I wish that I had, I think, because then I would have been done, or not done, but would have thought I was and would have acted as if it were true and moved on and not be here any longer, be enjoying myself, resting or whatever I want to do, I guess, which might be resting or not.  I am not certain. The point is, I didn't forget and I seem to care, too, at least enough not to choose  what I think would be better, or more enjoyable, or something. I suppose that is meaningful but I am still wondering if it would have been better if I had forgotten, though I know I would have realized at some point.

Tonight I took a risk following an idea for a story that felt a bit underwhelming when I first started with it, and I think it actually worked out into something more interesting, although I would admit that the overall piece is not all that groundbreaking in terms of the subject matter.  I think it is an interestingly executed story, though, as it does a lot in a fairly short space, and is also somewhat playful in terms of the style and the delivery of the story.  The general premise is really just about a piece of technology going awry, in this case a lawn maintenance machine that won't allow anyone to interfere with its perfect lawn, but I feel like I do it in a way that is interesting and adds more to it, and, I hope, makes it a richer experience for readers.

I don't think it will be understood but maybe that is the point, even if I don't like thinking that. I know it has more than nothing to it, that there is not a secret emptiness, that all the hiding places are filled or should be full, have been set for those who arrive.  I am certain and not certain, and it is equal. I can do all that I might but there is still too much that is fraught.  I don't know why it is required, I only follow the path and do it as I must, as I can.  There may be  other ways, there may be. They are not mine. I cannot find them.

When I came up to my office, I was still trying to think of an idea for a story, and I kind of sat around for a while, not certain just what to write, but I did have an image in my head that I had pushed as idea previously, as I wasn't really sure how to use it or if it would work.  Of course, it was the only idea that I had in my head and so I went with it.  If I am honest, I am not blown away by the results.  Don't get me wrong, as the story might be quite good, or it might be crap.  I am really not certain.  But what matters more, I think, is that I gave that idea a real shot and followed it through.  I think that attitude matters, that it kind of encourages ideas to percolate, as if a part of my imagination knows it is only worth the effort if I am willing to put in the work.

There is a way forward and it requires a first step that is taken without certainty, without knowing where or when you will find the path. It is not as if there is no ground here, though, it is not that difficult. It is a challenge, in its way, but the challenge is trusting and acting and nothing more than that. The danger is greater when nothing is done, when it stagnates and falls and nothing comes back. That is the danger: I do not understand why I am afraid of the process  that can protect me.

I wish I were better able to communicate the shift that I have been experiencing in relationship to my short fiction.  In large part it is probably just a matter of confidence and familiarity, if I am honest.  I've been writing these stories consistently for a while at this point, so it makes sense that I am getting to a point where it feels more comfortable to work in this mode.  I am acclimating, and that makes it easier in a lot of different ways.  I think it may be that the real boon I am experiencing at the moment is just the sense of having developed a certain degree of capability just through repetition, but that is, in some sense, still just an explanation of the process by which those changes have occurred and not an explanation (or even a real description of) the things that have changed.

It came back I knew it would. I did not think it was gone or even missing,  not really.  It was  just a bit of trouble, it was just me not being there, not being in the space to know and think or notice what was there. I was closed to it, was responsible for not knowing, for not observing or experiencing. It was not a choice that I made, not a choice but a state, a place within me, a mode.  I was not ready and it went wrong. I can't help that. It will be that way at times.  That is the world, is being a person in the world. It is never going to be perfect, will not always go right or even well. I know that.  I accept it and it is better. If I had panicked it might not have come back so fast.

I don't feel that I was quite as successful tonight in terms of my fiction writing.  There wasn't a great idea in my head, at least not one I could find a way to work with. I have had a few interesting images that could serve as devices, maybe, if I had a sense of how to make them fit into stories.  I suppose I need to accept these kinds of ideas, even when I find them harder to work with.  It may be that the reason I had so much difficulty coming up with another idea is because I had already been given some and refused to consider them more seriously.

I have fallen back and out and away and do not have answers or reasons or a way to redeem myself, to make it right or better.  I know I should have been diligent and there are easy excuses for why, but it is unkind of me, is cruel, I think.  It is not what is needed, is not what you need from, I know, is not how I should be. You deserve to know this. I won't tell you, though. I'll write about it but I will not say anything.

One thing that is certainly true is that I am getting more comfortable writing fiction without a clear premise in mind when I start.  I am starting to find the ability to just improvise it by following along with a voice or a situation, I suppose, though I do still feel more comfortable writing a story that I already have a clearer sense of.  That seems normal, I guess, or I suppose it is probably a matter of the individual writer, really.  For me, clearly I am more comfortable when I have a strong sense of the story I am intending to write, but the fact that I am gaining the flexibility and skill to write without a clear sense of direction in mind already, I can't help but think of that as a good thing and a sign that I am developing as a fiction writer in general.

None of it was said or will be said and you tried but could not and now  it is over and gone and done and there are questions and no one has answers and it is the least of all the things, is nothing much, is just what you said, what you tried to say the little bit you could say anything, and it is not what is impotant. It was nothing significant, I know that, was not advice or a great secret, I know that is true, but I do wonder. It is years ago, now, and I think about it what I would call a fair amount, with regularity, at least. It is not all I think about, is not always what comes to me when I am missing you or considering your absence, but it is there. is a question I wish could be resolved. I wonder if that itself is the reason or if it is just another part of my grief. Probably, it is a bit of both.

I was worried that I had kind of jinxed myself last night by discussing how well I feel my fiction writing is going at the moment, but I actually wrote a story that I feel quite good about.  It is a bit longer and has a little more to it, maybe, than some of the things I have been writing, and I think it is also kind of fun and maybe a bit more approachable than a lot of the other work, while still being in the same general ballpark as far as the tenor of the piece goes, or that is what I think.  Of course, I only just wrote it a little while ago and have not really reread it.  I certainly haven't taken enough time to have any kind of coherent view of it right now, so it may be that once I have a little more distance my opinion will change somewhat.  Even considering that, I can't help but feel a bit more certain about what I was discussing last night.  I am learning and developing my approach to fiction.  I've been putting in the work for a while and I fee...

There are two options and I don't know which is best or which I will enjoy more, what will make me happier. I can't know that, I guess. I can choose and live and there will be an outcome and the other will be gone and remain unknown. I can imagine it as so much better or so much worse, too, if I wished, if I were inclined towards thinking I had done good and was right. Maybe I should practice that, practice thinking of the ways it could be so much worse if I hadn't made this choice or done that thing that I worry was bad and not right. Anyway, I can't know, not with certainty, not most of the time, anyhow, I can't know.  I can imagine, and maybe it is worth asking why I am imagining that this is the worst outcome.

The major point of pushing myself to write flash fiction each day has been, in large part, as a way to just push myself until I felt more comfortable and capable writing short stories.  It is also, of course, part of the process of creating a portfolio of work, but the challenge I set myself specifically was aimed at the process of doing the work each day, of crafting a new story from start to finish daily.  They are, of course, short pieces, and the quality ranges a lot, but by doing this, I've gained a lot of understanding about my fiction.  I have a stronger sense of the kinds of stories that I am interested in writing, and of the areas that I want to explore with my work.  When I started, I had already written fiction that I feel is good, but I had never put in a concerted effort to put out short fiction on any kind of consistent basis.  By making a shift in terms of that, I have given myself a chance to develop and make new discoveries as a writer, and now,...

I Hid It It is gone now because you should not know, that is better. It is not a lie but it is a secret. is better as a secret. It is not that I am  protecting myself or deceiving you, but I worry it would be upsetting to you. That is the problem. It is not hidden from you to benefit me. It is for you. Believe me. You can trust me, I am not telling you because that is better.

I am feeling quite frustrated at the moment.  It is nothing new or different, really, but it is feeling more acute right now, or I think it is.  Maybe that is just in my imagination and it is always this bad, I just don't recall it with the same piquancy.  I do not think so, if I am honest.  I am pretty certain that I am not always as focused on the same things, that there are times when it ebbs, even if it never fully subsides.  I just wish that I knew some way to take action that would make me actually feel like I was making progress to really change some of these things.  I don't mean just making an effort.  I have been making an effort for a long time and that hasn't made a difference.  In some ways, keeping on with an effort that doesn't actually have a practical reward feels like a punishment, like I am Sisyphus destined to need to get that boulder all the way up.  I need a sense of real progress in terms of my actual, external goals, n...

You have hurt me by your approach, have proven that you can't be trusted, that I can't believe you mean well. Your motives have always been your own, have been there. I was only a prospect and nothing more. I do not like it. You can't be trusted. I am already wounded just knowing that your interest was never anything, never genuine, was only seeking more for yourself. I do not know if you understand. It may be impossible considering  the type of person it is certain you must be. 

I am getting more of a knack for writing fiction on the fly.  It is not my preference, to be honest, but if I can't come up with an idea during the day and I still intend to write a story, I don't always have a choice.  Tonight, I was kind of feeling stuck but once I made the choice to sit down and get to work, once I had actually opened up the document, I found there was an idea waiting.  It was, in some ways, a fairly simple story, and I can see the ways it is echoing other things I've written before, but it was also a new expression of those ideas.  What is more, as I have expressed before, in many ways the ability to write a new story each day is more important to me right now the overall quality of any individual piece.  The point is to practice and get better, while also learning how to keep myself going and doing the work no matter how I might feel in the moment.

I would have but there was a disruption, the conditions were not appropriate and I had to wait. I will admit I had considered not doing it. I did not want to do it, no part of me wanted to, but I understood it was what I should do, what I needed to do, would have to do, even if not now, still, it would be a thing I had to do, so I was going to, but then there was a noise, a whole bunch of noise, and I think I should wait. It is not that I wouldn't do it: there was a noise.

Melissa and I went to a charity dinner tonight.  We were joining my mother and some of her friends, a number of whom had been involved in the event throughout the day.  We just came for the dinner, and only because my mother had invited us, specifically because she had made a donation in honor of my father's memory (the charity is one that he was appreciative of in his lifetime, and one which he himself both benefitted from and supported as well).  I am glad that my mother did this and that she invited us to be there, but I have to admit that I found it rather difficult.  I miss my father a great deal and I suppose that will always be true, but there are certainly times when that feeling comes to the fore in unexpected and difficult ways.

I don't, but when do I? And if I did, what of it, and maybe there is a way, or not so much.  Who says it is either or both or neither and not anything else, not all the other things, too. I can explain it  and make it clear but only be being misunderstood. I don't have more than that. I don't think there is more, not for this.  I don't know why I am writing when it is clear to me that it was already over or should not have begun, maybe? I suppose that is a bad thing to admit. I have to, though, or I feel I must. It seems proper, given the rest.

I am quite happy with the story that I wrote tonight.  It is playing around in some of the spaces that I find most fun to inhabit, with the central relationship in the piece being between the writer and the main character.  What is more, it is also playing with questions of the character's agency, and is contrasting it with the writer's own control over the work.  It also combines two different story ideas, one of which I had been tossing around in my head but couldn't quite make work, and another that came to me more recently but was inherently metafictional in a way that required it be grafted on top of a story.  I think the result is interesting and fun, and I also feel like I am exploring an approach to my fiction that I feel comfortable considering my own.

I have tried but it was no good or did not work or however you want to consider it. There was no point. I was not suited, maybe?  I can't say if that is true. I can say it went nowhere or nowhere good, went bad, went wrong, went all the way wrong and I don't want to do it again. I could, maybe.  I understand the suggestion, the reasoning. It may be I am harming myself with my refusal.  I know that. I am afraid.  It is not worth it, not for me as I am right now, not to face that again. What if all I learn is that it has not changed?

I was having a lot of trouble getting started with my fiction tonight, but at some point I decided I would just trust myself and started writing, and it actually did work out.  I'm not going to pretend that I think the story which resulted is a masterwork or anything of the sort, but it is more significant to me that I was able to just find an idea by just writing first and letting it emerge.  I feel like I am good at doing that with my poetry, but it is not as comfortable or natural for me when I am working on prose.  Tonight, though, I was able to succeed following that strategy.  While I will admit I am not certain I believe that I can always make that work, after tonight, I think that is more a matter of trusting myself and the process than anything.

It is gone or almost gone, is almost all used  and I want to get more, I want to get it as soon as I can, if I could, if I had the choice. It is not that simple, not any longer. There are barriers and complexities, are impositions and limitations. I can navigate them, but it is a factor. The need still remains but its fulfillment must be negotiated with care.

I have been feeling very overwhelmed with things lately.  I've had that feeling for a while at this point, and it has made it difficult for me to deal with certain things.  Finally, though, today I began to attend to certain matters that I know I need to deal with and I feel as if it is a start.  To be honest, a large part of me just wants to dismiss the progress I made today as too little to even matter, but I know that attitude is the one that will keep me mired in my current state and so I am trying the best I can to fight it with a more positive perspective.

I did it this way which is good, I think, is better.  It worked out this time, anyhow. It might be the same if I did this each time. It might turn out what mattered was the change, the shift to the pattern, the disruption. Routine is good, too. I am still following the same routine, in the broad strokes, am still keeping all my commitments, but stagnation, that might be a problem. I must do it again and again and have it still be new and something different.

I have felt rather successful with my efforts at writing fiction lately.  For a long time I was still struggling with it, but over the past few weeks or so, I've been finding that things are shifting in a positive direction.  In large part I am convinced it is more attitude than anything, as I do believe that the ideas and premises for stories are generally pretty easy to find.  I think I am just making it difficult for myself, or not trusting the ideas I do have (which is just an aspect of the first problem, to be honest).  Anyhow, I think that I am getting to a point where I am more confident about it, or it may just be that I have convinced that part of me that is struggling that I won't stop whatever it does, so why not just go along with it.

You ask why and I try to answer. It is a good question, and I want to answer it, but I don't know how, do not have a good grasp on just what is the real point. I wish that I did.  I know I should have a better idea. I have hope and some concept that things might change, maybe, or there could be progress if things go well, but that is vague and won't satisfy your query. I wish I didn't think it was such a good question.

Although I haven't written about it much in my most recent posts, I am still contemplating ideas for a novel.  I think I may have most of it in place, at least in a general sense.  I have an idea about the way that different elements of the story relate to each other and have a good idea of the ending, if not in terms of exactly how it unfolds, the overall nature of it and how the various characters wind up as a result.  I am still not certain about a few elements and how exactly they connect with everything else, and am not quite ready to begin writing it, I don't think.  At the same time, I'm also hesitant to intrude on my current fiction writing, as I do think the stories I am writing are getting better as I keep at it.  I don't know that I would be able to write both the novel and the flash fiction concurrently, and I do feel like my attempt to write a story a day has pushed me as a writer.  I don't know if I am ready to shift gears right now, but I kno...

I noticed but I am tired and not in the mood or in a different mood, or no mood, or just tired, as I said, tired.  That is  not good, or better, but it is the truth. It was laziness and nothing more. I should not admit that there is nothing to it, that I knew and did nothing because I wanted to be done, but here I am being honest anyway.

I wrote a kind of memoirish piece tonight for my flash fiction, which is fine, though it is not typical of the stories I've been writing.  There is a degree to which memoir is not really my strong suit, but I think that may just be a matter of fears that I've allowed to run rampant for a long while.  If I am honest, I don't think I would have written the piece I did if I'd had a different idea, but I am glad I pushed myself to write this piece.  First, I am definitely glad to be able to get myself to do some more personal writing of that sort, as I do often struggle with that, but I also have to acknowledge that I am just glad to find that I am finding new ways to keep myself going with my flash fiction.

It is a true story Is what happened, just about what happened, the way it happened, I mean, is almost true, is not quite right. What I said was backwards, was switched.  It happened, but I was not leaving, I was arriving. I don't know why I changed the detail, or how it happened since there is no reason. It was a mistake, I think, and I didn't fix it. I could have.  I still could. I don't think it matters, or maybe I like that it is not quite true.

I had a bit of trouble tonight getting myself to work.  Once more it was because of my difficulty landing on an idea for a story, but I was able to come up with something in the end.  To be honest, the story I wrote tonight feels a bit odd and I am not certain about just how to describe or categorize it, but I am happy with it, I think.  In some way, it gave me a sense of freedom that is kind of liberating, as it is such an odd piece it makes me believe that most anything could be a good starting point.

It was clear even in the moment and yet, what did I do? She is right that it is destructive, is self-sabotage, though I wonder if that is the goal, or if it is just what happens. I think it is worse, that I am not doing it to punish myself or to ruin something due to my own damage. I don't think that is it. I think I like being the victim. I think I feel good when I feel myself being mistreated and deserving justice.

Last night I kind of floundered with writing my fiction, as I said, and wound up just putting together something that was more just me speaking a bit about the difficulty I was having writing.  To be honest, that is a strategy that worked for me with writing poetry, and a large part of the value there was that it relieved the tension of trying to come up with an idea.  With poetry, I usually am planning to draft more than one poem when I sit down, so often I found the real value of this strategy is that it gets me started and clears out the debris, in a way.  When I am done, I am often in the right mental state to keep going, and I don't have as much trouble thinking of something to write about.  As I tend to only write one story each night, I wasn't certain how this strategy would ultimately translate, but I feel it has actually helped me, as it did let me get something done last night so that I didn't just leave the page blank, and the space that created seems to h...

This Same Thing Again I am hoping you will  be lenient or forgiving, but I know you are hurt, are upset at me doing these things, doing it so often and not learning to be different or better or another person. I shouldn't have done it and my being sorry  is all I have and is nothing, is not enough. I need to do better and I can't say I will when I have done it again. Saying that means nothing. It will only matter if I make it different and it never happens again.

I am excited to share that I had two pieces accepted by The Centifictionist, a journal that specializes exclusively in stories that are less than 100 words.  Obviously, these are very small pieces, but creating something which works as a story on that scale is challenging, and I can't help but feel that it is important to value even work on that scale as something genuine and real.  Of course, if I am frank, I find it difficult to really celebrate this, even though I am glad about it and proud of the work, as it does feel somewhat minor, but I can recognize that as a bit of my own baggage weighing me down and am trying to accept it as a win and trust that more will follow.

I could have made excuses but I knew better, knew it was only excuses and not real, not a reason, not anything more than a way to feel alright doing the wrong thing, or not doing the right thing, not doing anything. I have fallen into that before, have indulged myself, allowed bad impulses to guide my actions, but not tonight.

Well, it finally happened.  After a good run, I finally found myself facing the page without a real idea in my head for what to write.  I sat for quite a while not certain what to write, kind of fighting myself to find an idea, but that doesn't really work for me.  The pressure is not helpful for my creative process, I suppose.  Anyhow, I didn't want to admit that I was dry, so I just sat and waited for a long while.  Eventually, when it was already getting to be rather late, I pushed myself to just write something and get through with my work.  In some ways, I think it is probably good this happened, as it takes down the pressure for tomorrow.

Inaction It takes me choosing and then doing it, without that there is only the need and the possibility of it being met, and nothing else. It is possible I could change things, could take action and it would happen. I know that. It would be simple, not pleasant but simple. I could do it. I haven't, though. I am not certain what will be enough. I know it is needed and I want to do it, too. If that isn't enough, what will be?

I am still feeling a pressure around writing my fiction at the moment.  Tonight was another success, at least in the sense of having come up with a premise that I was able to see through into some type of complete story.  Each success, though, raises the stakes a bit, or that is how it feels.  I know, really, it is not that way, but it is how I feel at the moment.  I should just relax about it, but I want to keep writing new stories each day and I feel like it would take removing that goal to reduce the pressure at the moment, so I am just accepting that I might fail at it one of these days while hoping that I don't and that I get to a place of feeling enough confidence that the uncertainty and doubt which underlie my current stress vanish.  Maybe if I am able to keep this same type of output going for another week I might accept it as something I don't have to worry so much about.

What is between bothers me Not the the thing itself. That is all fine, but what fills up all those spaces, the gaps that are not empty, that are chosen, cast and clad and to be quoted, all of it a calculation, I suspect, a game, a strategy.  I sense that. I do not appreciate it. Too much that does nothing but speak of itself, but makes an argument that should be implied and not explicit.

So, it happened again and I missed a day of writing.  I won't beat myself up about it, but I do have some worry about it.  I think I know what it was.  Partly, it was circumstantial.  A close friend of mine came by last night and he is going through a rough time right now, so I was up late with him and a lot of the conversation was on the heavy side, so I was kind of drained when he left.  I could just blame that, but I know it is not true.  I think the real issue was that I felt kind of intimidated or scared, or maybe those aren't the right way to explain it, but it was a sense of not wanting to get to work because I might not be able to produce something good.  I had an idea for a story already and was kind of feeling a bit overwhelmed with it, I guess, but mostly because I had been thinking of how I feel like I am finally getting a handle on writing my daily flash fiction, at least in some sense that is purely about the ability to get something fict...

Has it been too long? I do not think so but I am bad at tracking  the time, and you  will be upset if I forget, even if it slips just a day or two days. I don't know. I think it is fine. I think it was today, maybe, or else, yesterday. I think so. I don't know and I am worried. It is too late to do anything now, but tomorrow, I need to remember for tomorrow.

I was again able to push myself to come up with a good premise for a story.  It is always a bit surprising when it works, to be honest, when I am able to get my creativity into the appropriate gear by choice.  I don't know if it is really something I have gained an actual degree of control over or if I am just in the right headspace at the moment, but I am going to try as much as I can to remain optimistic. It is certainly positive to feel like I am writing good stories at the moment, and I do feel as if I am developing some understanding of the types of ideas I find myself most adept at exploring.

Are we moving forward? I do not know if it is true or just another way to remain here, a complication that changes  the trappings but does nothing for progress, for positive change. I don't know and cannot say. I want to trust that it is true. Of course I do, I have little choice but to hope it is so.