Your love is for a beggar,
Empty hands is all I ever had.
Last month I realised something that I had somehow chosen to ignore; the A to Z Challenge taught me that I cannot just string clever words together on another's whims and expect to create something worth experiencing. I found I had formed a grudging dislike for a majority of the pieces of flash fiction that I generated for the first half of the challenge. Torn between my passion for music and the desire to present to the masses what they anticipated, I struggled to produce anything that adequately satisfied both criteria. I found myself resignedly typing out a new post only to find that after two paragraphs I despised it, currently it lurks in the eternal pit of drafts, its unfinished ending simply 'I hate this.'
And so I took the proverbial step back to refocus and reconnect with my own selfish perceptions, I would regain my objective of writing what I wanted, about ideas that would emerge when journeying or waiting or sleeping and became distorted explanations and prose on a notepad or mobile.
The embodiment of my self centred direction is my WIP, started four fast years ago the only development it has received since then has been the continuous revisions of scenes in my mind. I made too many excuses, abetted by my ghastly planning abilities it was left, but not abandoned. When I have time, when I make time, I will sit and write from the start and I will not stop until I have a story.
Art of Sleeping,