As I find myself spending more time writing fiction, it unfortunately eats into time I would spend writing blog posts. Often there are topics I want to explore here, but I end up having to postpone them until I can find a block of time to really explore my thoughts.
Regardless, I have come to realize that the whole point of this blog was to prepare me to write. There is no other explanation for why I am suddenly compelled to write fiction, when it was never a conscious goal in the first place. I have no business doing it, and certainly no qualifications. None of that, however, seems to matter.
I am currently finishing my fourth short story and it is incredibly rewarding. I actually got choked up writing its conclusion today, and that felt very weird. It is turning out to be way too long to really fit the definition of a short story, but it takes what it takes to tell the fucking thing. I’m just letting go and the words just come out – the act of doing it really is its own reward.
Maybe someone will read it, maybe not. I’m not sure if it really matters. All I know is doing it feels right and natural, like, for whatever reason, this is what I’m supposed to be doing.
I’m not questioning it.