it’s another of those days where there’s nothing new to write, or say.
the year is coming to a close and it’s getting oddly more difficult to do an honest piece of creative writing, not just the same sort of prompts and challenges that are often pulled together.
three more days of this: of not having ideas, or having so many ideas there’s never time to write them, and maybe the new year will clear out those cobwebs. it’s a neat idea, a visualization of the year being some clever new thing that dusts away all the clutter from the previous year.
it’s definitely time to copy all the tiny stories into the notebook designated; those are so easy to lose track of. it’s horrible, but also maybe in a way lovely? like they’re here one minute and gone the next, only existing within grey matter.
you don’t even know they were here, or what they were.
only this is annoying too because tiny stories are the best, little snippets of a story and you get to fill in the blanks. they are mysteries in their own right, holding back all the vital information and poetic in their arrangement. they’re the best kind of story, making you want more and frustrated at the brevity, poem-like in their careful unraveling.
so much for always carrying pens and journals, spiral-bound notebooks that bely the temporary-ness of the stories they hold.