The past couple of weeks I've been doing some soul searching about what I want to do next regarding writing. I began one novel, about a teenage girl with CF who loves comics and winds up having to escort a boy on crutches around school as punishment for some stupid behavior. I wrote 30 pages before it got too hard. Not because I didn't know where the story was going. In fact, I have every detail of that story in my head. No, it's getting intimate with their girl's battle with CF that sticks a dagger in my spirit.
I'm sure I'll return to this story when I'm in the right frame of mind, which really bums me out because it's the original story I wanted to do before I wound up writing Legendary.
After I put that one aside I jumped back on to a script I was writing.
The third act. That's all it needs. The third frickin act.
So I waited.
Sometimes inspiration comes from nothing, and I found a post-it I wrote five years ago with a title for a book. That's it, just the title. That faded, dusty post-it was speaking to me last week when I discovered it buried on my dresser under a pile of old birthday cards and a lone sock missing it's mate. So I thought I'd give it a try.
Nothing more to say about it. Not making any promises.
I struggle, my friends. I struggle to find a purpose in writing when my son goes through so much. I struggle to see what kind of meaning any of my scribbles can have.
But I'm trying, and I hope you'll stick around to find out what I have in store.