Remember when I said I was going to have more of a presence here on this journal.
Yeah. Me too.
But then again, there has been a global pandemic. And if you’re wondering if I’ve gotten much writing done, the answer is a resounding NOPE.
This year I’ve done a lot of digging into myself as to why I haven’t been able to write. Where’s the motivation? Where’s the fire? I don’t know. Still haven’t figured it out.
I’ll have a day or two here and there where I am IN IT. I am my motivation. I have all the spark I need to set the world ablaze. But most days? I can’t manage even a puff of smoke.
I know so many other writers who have used this time to pour themselves into their craft. Me? I took this time to read. Not just my lovely concoction of self-help books and non-fic, but actual fiction. And I’d be lying to you if I didn’t tell you that there is a story brewing inside of me. But I think that the time that I’ve had during this time of Corona, I’ve been gathering words and phrases, metaphors and courage.
The ideas haven’t left. Just my ability to schedule time to make it happen.
But I hope that all ends with the start of October. Autumn brings change—sweaters and boots. Warm spices and warmer hearts. And with any luck it will bring a change in regime. (If you’re from the States—please Vote November 3rd).
I wish you all well, wherever you are.
~CM