Serial Stories

I often have a difficult time just sitting down and writing, specifically when it comes to writing any sort of short story, it truly baffles me. Stories float around in my head, bending and warping, and they just sort of sit there. I don't really touch them. Occasionally I may pick one out and start to write it but once I've started the act of writing, the story goes away and I can no longer think on it.

This poses a real big problem for me. I want to write novels that people cherish and enjoy reading but I am wholly unable to focus on something quite so lengthy. This blog is really a place for me to experiment with my writing style and try to find things that work for me. I'm quite able to write personal thoughts down without any effort and on occasion I can write down small editorial-esque type pieces. I am proud of my writing, I feel that it is strong, well written and concise, but I need more practice with fiction.

I've devised a plan that will hopefully alleviate the issue of forcing stories out of my head by working on them more slowly and over a long period of time. Very much the same thing that Charles Dickens did with many of his novels. Though I don't have a particular public outlet, other than here, for any sort of exposure. I am hoping though, that regardless of whether anyone reads my stories, this method will allow me to work on a singular piece until it's completion.

Depending on how my day turns out I may kick things off tonight with a fresh story that started brewing in my head this morning. It's a bit of a departure for me in terms of subject, but then again I do like to float around with different ideas until one makes sense to me.

The Price of Christmas [poem]

Sunken, sullen eyes
Snotty, sniffeling noses
Sour, snakeskin lips

Surrounded by a sea of depressives
in the most wonderful time of the year
Homicide
Suicide
Drinking...cider with friends and family

Feigning interest
Waning relationships
Taking gifts and leaving

Bodies built up in a ball of bile and blood
and in the middle a crying boy
but only because he wanted that toy.

Not really sure where I was going with this. Walking around department stores lately though I've noticed this beaten and broken look in peoples faces. That was the general inspiration for the poem at least. The realization that, despite my complete adoration, this season takes a bigger toll on most than they may realize.

My first official post on RealityGrounded, I feel accomplished right now. Thanks for reading.