Looking at the date I realise it has been a week since I last wrote anything. Fiction, I mean. It has been a little longer since the last blog post (dipping in and out the two worlds, you see).
It doesn't feel like a week. Time and reality are so easy to lose grips with when you're not trying.
I could go a year without writing and not notice, surely. I would think about it (and lord do I think of it) but whether I would actually get into the act of doing writing is a completely different thing.
The 10K word limit was made. It was achieved in smaller chunks - 8 stories. But made the count, and I voiced new (to me) stories. Most of the ideas are not particularly new, but the words are in an order I have never seen before. Because of this, I shall call it my own.
What does this mean to you? Any of it? Nothing whatsoever. I have created something but I am not showing it for now, for reasons of being too raw and too badly written (oh how we love it as we make it but when we look at it there are deformities that were not initially apparent).
Consider this just a pop in to say I am alive. I am written. Perhaps if I get my act together I will be writing, too.
Don't stop writing.
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