It feels like it’s been ages since I last wrote some good fiction. By ‘good’ I don’t mean to say my fiction is particularly good. I don’t claim to be a good writer, I just like to do it.
Regardless of quality of my writing, I need to do some of it. It’s been a while, at least since I’ve written anything of significance. A bite here or there won’t fill you up.
I need to write something substantial, something with some heft. Something that would take more than a few minutes to write, and more than a few seconds to read.
Writing fiction has always helped me work through my real world problems. By making things up, I somehow relax about my reality.
At this moment a beautiful sleeping baby lay in my arms. If I put her down she’ll wake up. This means that the five intermittent out of ten hours of sleep I got last night in addition to the maybe two I’ve gotten since 10pm tonight is all I’ve had in 24 hours.
I am exhausted. I got my paperwork submitted to return to work in eight days, and in stressing over the idea that not only will I be getting no sleep, I’ll have to do a reasonably competent job. Granted, my work isn’t dangers, isn’t important, nor is there any risk to public safety. But spending six to eight hours at work (away from my baby) after an all-nighter with my baby, only to have another all-nighter, then do it all over again, is not a thrilling prospect.
So, I need some fiction in my life. Soon. I need to create a whole new world with all new people and make their lives miserable or amazing. Gosh that sounds good.