These days, my research, as I am calling it, has mostly been the intense and barely-discerning consumption of large amounts of fiction. A little nonfiction has crept in, too, giving the research a flimsy sense of actuality, but mostly I’ve been goofing off. There’s nothing else to call it when your hours are spent watching some pretty lame werewolf program on Netflix instead of writing. It certainly isn’t giving me much in the way of a solid education.
I could blame it on my back pain, which has been terrible, or I could blame it on the weather, which has been changeable, or I could even blame it upon the stars and shake my fist at the heavens for putting the moon in Aquarius all day so I couldn’t concentrate. Or I could be honest and say that I am simply too tired lately to concentrate. I have ideas, but no energy to work on them. I am hoping that things improve, but until they do, I cannot force the writing to come. All I want to accomplish is . . . to write well. Don’t think that will happen if I’m dragging from an aggravating injury that ruins my sleep and makes me exhausted.
I’ll set a small goal for next week: I will write a micro story, 500 words. Maybe that will get the blood pumping.
It’s a start.