One more day left in the year.
I’m uninspired tonight. I tried my hand at a flash fiction, but found it dry. Dull. Somehow, the words weren’t speaking to me; the synapses in my brain weren’t firing off clever wordplays.
Why force it, then. The night’s drawing to its close and my mind is still wakeful, though that might be the book I’m beginning. I can’t tell if I’m going to like the book – so far it seems tepid, but then that might just be the style it’s done in. Diary-like.
Two more days before I begin the Secret Things list. It will be fun, and comprehensive. I’m going to have to polish up my social media a little too.
Also, I’m thinking of rattling the doors of employment a bit earlier than I thought. I find I miss the routine I formed in the last few months, and my writing certainly isn’t any better for being out of work. Ironic, but it seems that when I was in work, I was better-placed to be producing poems and short fictions.
All this free time and no writing mojo left, apparently.