I have a note here for a blog post I wanted to write: "The stories we tell ourselves."
I wonder what I meant by that?
not unusual for me to be puzzled like this by my jottings, my story
ideas. It's not unusual for me to be completely unable to recall what I
meant. (It's also not unusual for me to recall what I meant, but to find
it unimpressive and not worth writing after all.)
It's okay. I
figure that anything really worth writing about will excite enough
neurons to resurface when given the prompt. If the prompt fails to
elicit anything, then that little spark that seemed so brilliant in the
moment must've flamed out pretty quickly.
At least once a week, I
get a story idea that seizes me, convinces me of its depth and
brilliance. I can envision the finished story in my head, complex,
juicy, powerful. Over and over, these ideas lose their luster within
days. Sometimes hours.
So few acorns sprout into oaks. My notebooks are full of acorns.
In closing, I'll note this upcoming appearance, for those of you in or near New Jersey:
September 17, 7 PM.
Author panel and Q&A: "So You Want to Write a Book!" Gloucester
County Library, Mullica Hill Branch, 389 Wolfert Station Road Mullica
Hill, NJ 08062. Appearing with members of the New Jersey Authors