Did I say “next”…

Ah, the promises we make to ourselves are those we break the most. Why do we put up with ourselves, I wonder.

I did. I went back and read that. In the literal sense I’ve already blown the challenge as I stipulated that I would start on that, or the next day. Yet I’m giving myself a Mulligan, because situations outside of my control strapped me into a spiral of malaise and funk that forced me to contribute very little for the last few days. This is a typical battle, one that (thankfully) doesn’t impede the larger parts of my life, but just those smaller grottoes just for me. Perhaps it is my unwillingness to think I deserve a creative outlet. Perhaps I am merely holding back expecting some sort of backlash. Perhaps I’m just lazy. Either way, I have made it back and intend to not promise anything, but to keep the challenge ahead.

Though I will make an adjustment to the rules because they are my rules and I can change them if I want. The thirteen stories in thirteen days do not need to be consecutive, but, and this is the one added restriction that I need – they will have to be completed by September 1st, 2018.

Black and White Clocks by Andrey Grushnikov
Photo by Andrey Grushnikov from Pexels

Let’s pretend…

The human construct of time marches forward on heels of iron and regret and we are merely dead leaves blowing along in its wake.

…that I’ve written the post about not being around, not writing, blardy blard blarg. I’ve forgiven me. You’ve forgiven me. We’ve had a good laugh about distractions, self-doubt, and sabotage and now we’re at the bottom of the Triscuit box and all that’s left are slivers of biscuit and some moldy Gouda. The human construct of time marches forward on heels of iron and regret and we are merely dead leaves blowing along in its wake.

Or some such. Yet either way I have decided to resurrect myself, yet again, and give this a go. Much like quitting smoking – which I have recently done – sometimes there are many attempts necessary before something sticks. Some of the best things are covered in a temporal Teflon, evading that stick-to-it-ness of worse habits. So since time is our enemy and on our side and blowing in the wind, we’ll use it as our convenient prop to get this party started, yeah?

The Challenge

Over the next thirteen days I will attempt to draft out one short story per day with the intention of publishing them altogether in an anthology. This is a theme that I’ve been mulling on for a long time and some of the stories are either started or synopsized (new word!). I should have started this on the 13th, but alas, my timing, as usual, is terrible. Yet I would have you check in with me from time to time to see if I’m actually completing this completely doable goal.


Removing the progress meter from the sidebar for the other project. Those words still exist, but it, for now, is taking a back burner to other things. Let’s see if I can get up on the curb before I go back to the mountain.


So dark it’s nearly empty

It’s been a long time since I could write. I have so many reasons, but they all boil down to I just didn’t care. I didn’t care about the stories. I didn’t care about myself. I didn’t care enough to finish. I didn’t care enough to start.

Something changed, though. Maybe the weather, maybe my attitude. Perhaps it coincides with a break in my day-work load. No matter why, the change happened and I felt like the person I have always thought I was.

I am still plagued with self-doubt. I am still worried that I will be laughed at. I still hide behind a pen name in case it all goes to shit. But I have started again and I will finish. There is so much I can look back on and say, “if I only had tried.” I don’t want to do that anymore.

Today I put the finishing touched on a thriller outline and wrote the first 500 words of the story. It’s a step, a tiny step that I hope to repeat day after day. Why only 500 words? I needed a reachable goal. The outline was nearly done and I formatted it into Scrivener. Then, the first scene and a half just poured out. It’s almost as if the act of writing¬†something gave me the inspiration/energy/moxy to keep writing. It’s the oldest advice in the world: if you want to write, then you have to write.

Untitled Novel as of 6/6/17: 554 words