I Might Want to Punch You

My mind is somewhere else today. So far, after two hours of “writing,” I’ve managed 154 words on a short story. And I’m pretty sure 81 of them are going to be removed when I revise it.

That's me, frustrated.

That’s me, frustrated.

As some may know, I plan to will publish my Young Adult science fiction novel, Runaways, this year (probably this summer). However, leading up to it, I want to publish a book of five or six flash fiction stories, just to get my name out there, generate some buzz, all that jazz (and other things that in end two Z’s).

BUT…I’m really struggling with four of the stories. One of the six is fully ready to go, one is finished and awaiting a second draft, and four are sitting there unfinished. I’m slowly beginning to think it’s because I don’t care about these four. Two of them have a lot of potential to say something, and the other two are a little, I dunno…silly?

I keep asking myself, “At what point do you say these aren’t the stories you want to tell and just move on?” Or is it just that I’m distracted and irritable in my life right now? There are so many times I feel I don’t have any stories I want to tell, but I still want to write. Most writers never feel that way. All the time I hear, “Even if I never came up with another idea, I’d have enough already to last the rest of my life,” or “I just don’t have enough time to write all the stories in my head!”

Then I punch them in the face.

Not really. I mean good for them. But I hope they see the punches in my eyes.

Update! As I was leaving the coffee shop where I wrote this, I found a quarter on the ground. So that’s a win!


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