.

Where are all the stories?

I find I am afraid of writing, afraid of the stories that may come forth. I am afraid of the toil, the madness from not attaining perfection (and that, we know but not understand, is impossible), the frustration and heartache that follows like a writer’s faith, of which there is none. I am afraid of purple prose, of which I have a brilliant tendency. I am made ill by poor reviews, and suspicious of positive feedback.

I am afraid of writing a bad story, I am afraid of telling too much.

The alternative, to not write, to not release these words, seems a sorry fate, but safer. No one wants these stories after all, no one expects them. No one but me. And I guess that is as good a reason as any to write.

I’m putting aside the Munich story I had thought I would be writing; it’s just not coming along. Instead, having reread one of my 2002 stories - “Only the Greatest Gets to Go” - I’ve found I like it more than I remember, but it was written in just one sitting, more of a sketch than anything else; less than 2,000 words at that. It might benefit from a rewrite or just fleshing out a couple of scenes. I dunno, it might even be the prologue for what could become a novel. Enough talking about writing, time to do just that.

And as the year comes to a close, I am going to take the same attitude to 2007: enough of second-guessing myself, I’ll just take things as they come. Why don’t I just feel good about it first; it might just turn out that way.

Now for the fireworks and alcohol…