This morning it occured to me that I have never in my life actually worked to write a story. My lines are usually interpretations of reality and serve as little more as a documentation of my own journey. I have committed to entering a short story contest, with the purpose of giving this writing thing a serious try, seeing something through to the end, past the butterflies.
I made the mistake of reading last year’s winning entry which in turn immediately discouraged me. Stupid move, I agree. I didn’t stop there though, but pulled myself together not ready to give up a fight I hadn’t started.
My story had it’s subject but no plan on how to set up a worthwile stage around it. I borrowed the first part of a previous blog draft and started fiddling around with it, cutting a lot and adding more packaging. As my mind continues to juggle ideas, I find myself enjoying myself. I noticed that my original idea was hardly enough to capture any reader’s interest, and so this morning I continued the story. Apart from the 50 page book I wrote in high school, I have never spent this much time on one thing.
It is coming together. Slowly.
