Lets just ignore the howling gap in time since my last post.
I’ve been pondering the whys and wherefores of writing, perched uncomfortably on metaphysical and metaphorical mountaintops. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to write, but the act has escaped me for some time now.
I’ve recently been on holiday, in the north west of Scotland under impossible May sunshine for day after day and , despite feeling the usual constriction of city living returning, I am feeling a gentle current of relaxation stream through me. It’s too easy to get into a mental rut, to only be able to see what needs to be done as a pointless and brain-melting chore, but then I have to remind myself that I used to really enjoy writing. It’s difficult to explain why writing is something I think about constantly, why ideas continually come to me unbidden like inquisitive little creatures who want to take up residence and start a life for themselves. I can’t explain it, but it happens, even in a general state of ‘non-writing’.
Things have been changing for the positive, though. I’ve started submitting stories again after allowing all my submissions to lapse once the rejections rolled in. I’ve even rewritten little bits of some stories to try and give them new opportunities. So there’s three of them out there at the moment and I have fresh ideas for new ones.
Encouragingly, ‘Unpicking the Stitches‘ made the lengthy ‘notable stories’ list of Story South’s Million Writers Award. There’s some pretty strong competition, but even being noticed is enough to create that warm feeling, to fuel that desire to continue. I’m sure I’ll gaze back at this period as a nasty pothole that flattened my front tyre.