For reasons too dim-witted and — say it: SILLY — I have for the past several years confined myself to juggling old short-shorts and faux memoirs.
My brain had gone into hiding, and to maintain a semblance of writerlyness I joined a couple of regional writers’ groups. Nice folks, many of them, and a few genuine good writers among them.
But something was missing. The thrill, the challenge, the sense of accomplishment… I don’t know. Call it what you will. I suspect some of you know exactly what I mean.
Every week I was writing — or resuscitating from old files — bits and pieces of English prose which clung to my hard drive. Frequently amusing, often admired by cohorts. But — come to the truth here, man — light-weight and bland.
Maybe the goddam corona virus has done me a favor, has prodded me to action before laying a hand on my brow and calling in the coroner. Adieu, children, I love you all and…
But wait. What’s that in the corner there? That Scriv thing. It’s a… it’s a tool, a tool for writers. I wonder if, hidden among the ill-kempt shards of prose there is aught worth editing.
Conclusion: maybe yes, maybe no. But this writing stuff. If you’re going to muck around with it, do it seriously. Open Scrivener and dig into the piles of… well, it’s stuff, anyway.
Wish me well.
does this make you a zombie writer? compared to say a ghost writer?
think about it…
I’ll wish you well. That was a wonderfully written post.