Seems I am back to my opening line syndrome, despite the fact that I have incorporated planning into my learned skills. I may have a better idea where a story is going, but there ain’t a damn thing I can write about it.
So the gauntlet is laid. Where to find the pole of sentences to vault jauntily over the barriers of then…? Six newly started stories, a dozen old ones ripened for rewriting, all sitting on the cliff afraid to climb, too frightened to let go their hooked grip to learn if they could fly. I’m stymied by the wealth of knowledge, the tools at my disposal that represent techniques I’ve learned to recognize in reading and understand the mechanics of how they work and what they do. Much like standing in a gourmet shop with tons of money and an appetite.
I need to worry this less; I need to lessen this worry. I need to fly regardless of if I can.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology