i was a prolific writer in my day. of course, “my day” was approximately 20 years ago. in high school and college, i wrote angsty poems and stories with angsty heroines in love with tragic heroes. was the writing any good? probably not. did i write anyway? absolutely.
thankfully, most of my angst is imprisoned on 5-inch floppy disks with no possibility of parole. which is just as well. the point is: i wrote. and i wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote. i didn’t care if the writing was any good. i didn’t care if it was ever publish. it was a carefree pursuit.
sometime in the past two decades, i started caring. and in caring, i found the fear and trepidation that is – apparently – common amongst writers: what if no one likes what i write? what if i write something good and can never write anything else? surely no one will want to read what i have to say. the list is never-ending.
and while i’ve ventured into noveling by way of nanowrimo, i think the salvation of my writer’s ego is not in the overwhelming all-you-can-eat buffet of the novel, but in the elegant petit fours of flash fiction. small victories.
my flash adventures begin here:
i invite you to join me. go on… it’s only a wee commitment.