I have had a slump of sorts. Sure I have worked and finished 2 (maybe three, I haven't decided if one is complete enough to be called a story yet, even flash) stories this month and I feel very unproductive. The first story took me ten days to write and was only 3900 words long. The second was only 371 words long and took me all day, a writers day, not a normal persons day.
Now, this morning I am trying to come up with a short story idea and I have three different tabs on my monitor, all are shorts, none are finished and I think they will all be deleted without being saved before I leave the computer this morning. Mostly because they not only suck, but they aren't going anywhere.
I am considering starting another book at this point. The other idea is to leave the rest of the month be and just read instead of write for a couple of weeks because the writing is going nowhere.
Now for something I have tinkered with this morning:
Still, I am finding it oddly relaxing, sitting here. Listening to the worms as they edge closer. Tiny scratching sounds like millions of tiny fingers working against the earth. So small, but in unison they could move the planet, change it somehow.
Even now I can feel the thump of footsteps above me. They walk with impunity, thinking little of what they are on and caring not, for the dead can't know.
Geeking out over The Black Hole (Disney, 1979)
4 weeks ago