LITERATURE & WRITING: Art Nouveau

Hours pass, some signs of normalcy; laundry almost done, checkbooks balanced, entries posted into Quicken, bills paid, mounting stress focused into computer rage unleashed upon unnavigable websites, a few weeds pulled, neighbor’s house checked to make sure she didn’t leave the bathroom fan on, as directed via a car phone call from somewhere in Ohio, remembered how to code the alarm so the police didn’t show up as well, charted my course of wandering for tomorrow–must remember to bring my chain saw to my dad’s, and Chris, what’s a good post-chemo happy thing to bring? I read some more short stories and fell back into a mopey mood.

I cannot seem to get my head around them, there is no plot it seems. Feelings, it’s all about feelings; and character studies of people I can’t seem to care about. No resolution. Conflicts are mere mind games. I can’t write this way. I can’t write at all. I want to cry.

But wondering, and because it is a challenge, and because I want to try and am already suited halfway up with weird emotions that affect my words as well as mood, I’m looking through some of my stories written in my plain old fashioned way. I may pick one and play with it, make it strange to suit the times. Make it deep and unfathomable, hide the meaning best as I can, or better yet–have no meaning to it at all and leave it to the reader to create one. I do not know.

Sometimes I think my best writing isn’t in the stories, but in the brief daily musings here. Maybe I can pick one out and follow through on that–they’re certainly more odd than any story I have carefully planned out.

I just don’t know.