In high school I wrote two full length novels. They weren’t great or anything, they were readable, and some said enjoyable, but the fact of the matter is that I wrote them until they were two or three hundred pages long, and I didn’t stop. Maybe I just had more energy back then, more energy in my brain at least.
Maybe the creative motivation side of my brain died in the accident with the ‘bitch’ side of my brain and the ‘fear/adrenaline’ side of my brain. Maybe.
All I know is that I’m left with this constant desire to write, and yet nothing to write about, no creative juices helping me along, and a complete inability to write anything more than about five pages.
I’m not a short story kind of girl, this isn’t going to work for me.
I used to pull long narrative type stories from my everyday life, dramatized them up a bit and found myself with long storylike peices of literature. But when I’ve tried that in the past year or so, I’ve failed miserably. My life really isn’t interesting enough, even when I add false drama. I have a very cut and dry life. Same thing everyday, day after day. Although this makes me very happy, and my life is full of joy, love, interesting evening and truly a lot of fun, it’s not the type of thing a person can really write about, and if they could, it wouldn’t be terribly interesting to read about.
This leaves me with my problem, and now your problem because you have to sit there and read these posts that are literally about nothing.
I’ll get through it, and when I do, I’ll write. Until then, I’ll write about not being through it yet.