Mostly, this is just another post to test Twitter connectivity, but then my mind started to wander into the dreamlands. That’s not an expression. I’m tired as fuck and sitting at this computer waiting for a morning’s worth of calls to get started at the real job is making me something something tired. I did manage to bang out over 850 words last night on an idea I had. Not even just a story or a short, because unless I put it through the grinder, there isn’t much story there. I mostly did it to flex the muscles.
That’s a lot of what this blog is for, to put me in the frame of mind to where I want to get the words out. Even if it’s just a short hey-howzit? The old incarnation of Broken Fiction had a segment I liked to call 15 Minutes of 365 Days, where I loftily set the goal of writing for 15 minutes every day for a year. That petered out after a couple of months. It’s not that the pace was tough, it’s just that I’m lazy and it was too disorganized. No structure to it. No goal other than just to do it.
That’s a little what I’m worried about here, too. Flexing the muscle is a great idea, but unless there’s a concrete goal and structure set around it, I am so fucked. The asterisk in these confessions is that the flexor that I was working on last night was generated. Yes, I literally went to a story generator to see what came out, and took it with another idea I’d read about a few weeks ago. They may say that writers now stand on the shoulders of giants, but I prefer to think of it as distracting them while I pick their pockets. This story will be good to run across the finish line, as practice you know, but it ain’t worth shit.