Dead Stories

Yesterday I went through my vast collection of WIPs in search of something, some tiny kernel of an idea that captured my imagination. I have a lot of jumpstarts. Nothing reached out and grabbed me. Most of them yawned and rolled over in boredom.

That's not because they're bad. It has nothing to do with the quality of writing or the story idea. I'm...preoccupied. I have no idea how to deal with this issue. I've cleaned, done laundry, went shopping, read books, watched TV, crocheted, went swimming, baked. And still, when I sit in front of the computer, all ideas fade away to nothing.

I took a pen and pad of paper in the other room, thinking to possibly jot down some ideas. The paper remains blank. Mild panic is setting in. What if I can never write another story? Will I be reduced to knitting a never-ending stream of socks and mittens? Maybe I should take up painting or weaving?

Anxiety breeds anxiety. As I poke at my pitiful collection of stories, they remind me of my garden experiments, rows of dying plants that slowly shrivel and die for unknown reasons. Not enough sun? Too much water? What? What to do?

My 'what if' and 'once up a time' has deserted me--for now. While I wait for them to return, I believe I'll haul out my calligraphy supplies and work on that. Perhaps, keeping the mind and fingers busy will spring an idea or two loose. Until then, there's an abundance of chores to keep me occupied.

anny