It’s one of those Thursdays.
You know what I mean. Bright and sunny, 31 degrees – by all measures, a great day. But there’s something just plain blah about it.
“Blah” is such a descriptive word, isn’t it?
Anyway . . .
I have piles and piles of ideas for every kind of fiction story you can imagine. Notebooks full of ideas. File folders. Scraps of paper everywhere. And do you think I can turn any of it into a real live plot-twisting, mind-blowing, can’t-put-the-book-down-until-you-finish-it story?
News articles keep catching my attention. Really, really horrible news articles. Like reports on little girls the same age as my 7 year old granddaughter being married off to old men in Yemen, or young women being victimized by soldiers in Pakistan. This is real life.
The stories in my head are not.
My “blah” comes from a bit of inner turmoil. The thought keeps coming to me that perhaps I should lay down my great Canadian novel dream for a time and write something useful – something that might make a difference.
This is a biggie for me. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t want to write fiction. And it never occurred to me that I would write anything else. Until now.
We’ll see how it goes.