I write. Sometimes a little, sometimes a lot. I waver between intense explosions of ideas and directions and utter desolation of any kind of spark. I open a document, stare at it, re-read bits. Then close it down. Sometimes I don’t even read, just open then close.
Am I a one book kinda sorta wonder? Am I a literary fluke?
But then I think of the characters and their imaginary lives and where they are going. Some of them feel so very real to me. Their stories demand to be told but…nothing happens. Perhaps the clamor of the words in my head are too loud and I can’t see the plot for the pages. Their stories may eventually fade, I don’t know. Part of me wants them to go away. Another part wants to make them real. Today, I float in the air above two sinking ships, trying to decide which one to board.