I started writing a new story today.  It’s the first story I’ve written (or started writing-- it’s a long way from being finished) in… awhile.  It felt good to write some words and then some more words.  I even know what words come next and I know how it ends.  That, dear readers, is a very, very good feeling.

I think this story will be going off to Alison Tyler for one of her many, many projects.  As I struggle with words, she manages to write, blog, edit and send lovely gifties through the mail.  I feel like a slug beside her.  A snail.  A turtle.  Something very slow, at least.  (I feel the same way next to Sommer, who is-- in my mind-- the writer equivalent to the Tasmanian Devil.)

I know we’re not supposed to compare ourselves to other writers-- like we’re not supposed to read our reviews-- but we do.  Writers are (often) an insecure lot and are (usually) solitary creatures.  We poke our heads up from our computers and look around (I’m envisioning prairie dogs here), wondering what the other writers are doing.  Thanks to the wonderful world of blogs, we can find out.  We can then be depressed or proud of our day’s (week’s, month’s, year’s, career) accomplishments based on the blogs (or Tweets) we read.  Or maybe that’s just me? 

I’m just happy to be writing.  Writing makes me happy.

Posted by Kristina in Writing at 04:29 PM Permalink