Ah yes, the familiar feeling of panic. Every now and then my heart seems to pound for a few beats and return to normal. I have been stressed before, so I didn't think it was that, but now I am changing my mind. This is a different kind of stress. This is the stress of high expectations, both other's and my own.
I don't know if I could write. I mean, I can put words on paper and occasionally make them sound good. But what then? How many stories can I actually produce? I want to do sci-fi, but how can I make it in such a specific world? I was thinking short stories, but how long before I run out of ideas? WHAT IF I CAN'T THINK OF ANYTHING TO WRITE? And what if it doesn't come out good?
All this makes me want to start submitting my resume to places. But I only found two places I was interested in for publishing that might have me. They are both in Des Moines. And with David's job situation, I'm not sure how long I will be. So I have to write.
This is my week off and it is starting to scare me. I keep thinking, "next week I'll start," but start what exactly? The problem is that stories need purpose, underlying themes, and I have been better at scenes, conversations, things that hinted at a greater story, but never actually had one spelled out. I was thinking short stories because they are, well, shorter. Less of a commitment to get finished. But I have no idea of how to fit a whole story into a short format. Maybe I'll learn to love this format. But I don't know. I'm scared.
No comments:
Post a Comment