A prompt spurred by local writer’s group on the honing the craft.
What weeds? Weeding is the process of picking what’s sapping nutrients from the garden. My hands are in the soil and I want my stories to grown into ripe zucchini sized tales of action, suspense, and betrayal. But the only betrayal I’m doing is allowing the weed (and the occasional WEED) to sap me of my discipline.
But once this gardener gets his hands dirty, he’ll hang around to harvest ripe storylines and cut though patched up phrases with a reaper’s scythe.
Herbicide is best applied liberally by liberals. The phone pings, and the work/life hellscape of bedroom office distracts like no other. What? Did I fall out of love with the craft? No. It’s the locale. I must have jumped out of my seat. For I must escape the thought prison of early morning calls and the midnight hour of soul slaying in the fields of Elden Ring. For my room’s fields are fallow. Fertile lands must be sought. Perhaps a café stool or Sunday sessions by the sea.
My center, my rock is rooted in the plots dancing through my head. Maybe I’m afraid of failing at fiction. Maybe it’s just me wanting to stay comfortable.
I’m not one to censor myself. It’s me that’s scared of the censors. There’s one part father time me teetering on the edge of manic productivity or sheer nihilism. I’d like to finish the grand arc but get bogged down in the editing and doubt. I know my first single isn’t a chart topper. But that’s okay. The artist must not stop cranking out tunes. The setlist needs to be full before the crowd cheers for an encore.