Earlier last week, I was determined to write something without an outline or any planning. That usually means a short story, which it started about four days ago.
Last night, after my sick fam got their sleep on, I was working on a new short story. What makes this story even worth trying besides a chance to improvise? It’s a bizarre/absurd idea I elaborated on, and treated it like its real. Apparently there are a lot of bizarre ideas in my head, and in need to be placed in a file, or my notebook.
I wrote before how my fears allowed me to compromise my artistic visions, and it’s one of the reasons I didn’t pursue this kind of material in the past. Now I simply write it. No worries about it being right or wrong.
Filled out applications, and saw a job I’d be great for. I hope I get a callback. I’m tired as I write this, and remind myself, as the night winds down, I wished I had wrote this sooner. My mind wasn’t calm enough, and that usually means trouble for me. Now, as I sit here, watching Eraser, my mind seems to want to type. At the very least, I accept late night writing.
Live long and prosper.