You know those people who seem able to pull colorful threads of stories and weave them into one mighty tight plot? I so badly want to be one of them. But my problem isn’t the ideas. My problem is the making of the actual story. I seem to have lost the patience to write what I know.
Recently though, with the advent of a little toddler named Gabriel who insists on stories every time he visits, I seem to be getting the groove back. Of course, his stories are fairy-winged little threads, so far from what I want to write. But the spontaneity is there and I’m realizing that what I really lacked was the ability to excite myself enough to plow through the many yarns squiggling inside my head.
I still want to push through with my long-delayed project of a collection of short stories on sleeping and waking. Maybe one of these days, I’ll just surprise myself. : )