It’s been two years since I began writing in earnest. I’ve learned a lot in that time, and made some amazing friends, but since David died six months ago I’ve struggled to finish anything. That is until tonight.
Maybe it’s because my depression hit that low point where writing fiction helps me escape, or maybe it’s because I have a deadline next week and the panic finally caused an adrenaline spike to my creative nerve centre, but I’ve managed to write three pieces of flash fiction and then mapped out and half wrote a new short story this evening. The longer piece has a good chance of being submitted to an anthology next week. It’s different to the one I was working on, but it’s better and very me.
I’ve realised as I write more that there is a definite trend in my stories. For a while, I held back, concerned that I was revealing too much about my inner fears and personality. However, I’ve now decided to embrace it. This is who I am. If I’m honest about who I am in my writing then there is more chance of finding an audience with whom I resonate.