I’ve been pretty good about writing every day this week. Sure, none of it has been fiction–the sort of writing I feel I should be focusing on–but it’s writing nonetheless. And something’s better than nothing, right? Right.
So here’s something. I have been thinking more about writing lately. And that’s a good thing. When I’m feeling most like myself I have a voice running inside me most of the time, a narrative voice that weaves bits of normalcy into pieces of fiction. It helps me start stories or think through stories I’ve been working on. Sometimes that voice is just a string of words, a phrase or series of phrases that run through me if for nothing else but shear aesthetics.
I haven’t gotten to that point yet–where the voice runs through me naturally. But I have heard it whispering bits a couple of times. And I’ve been thinking a little about Prosperity and what’s been going on in that town I (sort of) created. I wonder about Clara Halfacre and June and Binky Chastain. I wonder what they’ll all be doing when I get back to playing with them. I’ve missed hearing their voices in my head. I know that sounds a little schizophrenic, but it’s just the writer in me. It’s the me in me.