It’s been a while since I’ve visited this old house.
Smells kind of musty. There are cobwebs everywhere. The air is stale. Just like my old hopes.
Truth is, when I started this blog I’d hoped to become a writer of fiction. I figured there was a novel inside me, bursting to get out. Maybe some short stories, too.
I wrote quite a few blog posts, engaged in a lot of flash fiction challenges and even tried my hand at a few very short stories. It was fun – and I felt energized. I was enthusiastic!
And then… nothing.
It was gone.
I lost my passion for writing.
I didn’t feel like opening up the laptop. I didn’t seriously think about writing a story or anything else for over a year and a half. During that time, about the only thing I wrote was a book review of my friend, Noelle Grainger‘s latest (and wonderful book), ‘Death by Pumpkin.” (If you haven’t read it, QUICK – go buy a copy!)
Even that seemed to tax me.
I believed my blog would die a slow death, and be a place I’d never visit again. A house left vacant, good only for stray cats and an unlucky rat or two.
But here I am. Go figure.
Now I’m opening up the windows and letting a fresh wind sweep through the rooms. Maybe it will scatter the cobwebs, and I’ll be able to do a little housecleaning without their silky webs entangling me. There are a lot of musty sheets to whip off furniture that’s been left unattended for far too long.
For the past month or so, I’ve been thinking about picking up my pen again. Not actually doing it, just thinking about it.
The problem is that I’m not too crazy about the things I’ve written in the past. The subjects, the stories – well, with an exception or two, they have left me feeling unfulfilled and empty. I didn’t really believe in them. That’s never a good thing for a storyteller, is it? If I can’t believe in them, how can a reader?
I don’t want to write any more stories about murder or horror. I want to write simple stories. Small stories about tiny moments in the lives of ordinary people. The moments that seem insignificant at the times they are occurring, but often end up being the moments we remember. Love, friendship, the movement of sweet grace throughout our days – these are the stories I want to write.
I have found these are also the most difficult stories to tell! It surprises me to learn it is much easier for me to craft a short story about murder and angst than to convey the simple happiness of one heart accidentally bumping up against another.
Still, I think I want to give it a try before I get too much older. I don’t have that much time to waste anymore.
So I’m doing my housecleaning. I’m dusting off the furniture around here and seeing if I can renovate this old house. Maybe I’ll hang a few new curtains – nice, bright cottony ones that will let the fresh wind float through the rooms.
A fresh wind. That’s what my writing needs.
I’m considering changing the name of this blog. Pulling down the old fiction. Starting afresh.
I’d like to thank my friend, Julia Lund, for her encouragement. For reasons known to her, I want to say thank you. She’s helped me find my way back here. Now it’s up to me to spruce up the real estate.