Just me being careless; I stuck a couple of large spuds in the oven, totally forgetting to prick them to let the air out. The inevitable happened: one of them exploded when I opened the oven door!
Careless.
Which has also been the case with my writing, lately. Everything has been askew, not gelling, not exciting. As messy as my spuds on opening the oven door.
I haven't been concentrating, lately. I've been wondering why. Hmm, I'm only at my best when writing the real thing, and not the notes. I've come to understand, from the crits I've received from everybody (not least the amazing Solvey) that my notes and structure/plot writing carry little interest beyond the thought that this could be a good story. If only there weren't as many mistakes.
And that's the truth. Unless I'm writing as though my life depends on it, I'm not going to write anything that's gonna affect anyone else's life, either.
Half a thought produces half a story. Half-hearted. Half of nothing much produces nothing.
I'd better shape up, otherwise I'll lose big style... lose everything I've been working on...
To quote Elvis: A whole mess of blues!
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