A few months ago, Dad asked me if I was still writing. I think he was trying to distract me from the whole world-on-fire situation, but it didn’t work: I immediately started crying. (I’ve been more than a little depressed, obviously.) I have not been writing. At all. The only writing I’ve done was at retreat last summer, when I finished a story I started at retreat the summer before. (The sections I read at retreat got positive reviews. I sent it to one very competitive market at the end of April. It got summarily rejected. And that’s that, for the moment, anyway.)
I go on retreat again at the end of the month. I have no idea what, if anything, I’ll work on. I haven’t been able to look at the novel. It’s too big, too hard, too much. Maybe I’ll work on an essay about my health. Maybe I’ll write fluffy fan-fic just to find joy in writing again. Maybe I won’t write anything and will just read and sleep. But I’m going, if for nothing else but to see my friends and spend a week in nature and away from life stress, work stress, and news. Because how can you create when the world’s on fire?
Common threadsArrowverse Benedict Cumberbatch board games books buy borrow bin cancer creative writing prompts cute cute cute depression and anxiety Discworld Doctor Who Douglas Adams family fashion fiction writing flash fiction friends Funko Hobbit/LOTR hurricanes illness joy and laughter Katrina life Lovecraft Marvel Cinematic Universe music Nathan Fillion novel otters Richard Armitage Sherlock short stories Sophie Kinsella story submissions stress TableTop Terry Pratchett Tom Hiddleston wildlife Wil Wheaton writing exercises writing workshop