I got on here to write my blog post, but then I got distracted reminiscing over the 100+ year history of my old university. I'm not even sure how I got started on that in the first place. Oh, bomb shelters. That was it.
I haven't been doing much writing, sorry to say. Mostly just working and sleeping. And thinking about writing. A lot of good that's doing me.
When I'm at work, I just think about how I want to come home and write my story. But when I get home, I just… don't do that. What's that all about?
I'm not uninspired anymore. Just… unmotivated. I can see the airships, and the approaching darkness, and one man as he stares down the unknown while the wind picks up. It’s all in there. It’s just not coming out, like a particularly stubborn bottle of ketchup. But, like ketchup, it's all going to come pouring out at the most inconvenient time. I'm not sure what the writing equivalent is. Probably while I'm at work, or when I have to go to bed.
This isn't really necessary for a short story, I think. In the case of a longer project, I like to get a little lost in the world. Just because I can't describe things doesn't mean I can't imagine them. But in the case of a short story of 5,000 words or less, will we really spend enough time there to bother? I don’t know. Maybe it's more important in a short story, I have to run in, set the scene, tell the story, and get out. I need this world in a bottle.
Terrarium fiction, that's what we’re doing.
Life in a bottle, storms in a teacup.
Bite sized stories, easy to chew, grape flavored… wait, no. That's vitamins.
My metaphors are getting away from me. I'll round them up and see you on Friday.
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