Writing

Writing is an odd pursuit, somehow. People do it all the time, in a utilitarian way, without giving it too much thought, but when you try to do it 'seriously', it doesn't seem nearly as straightforward. Not for the first time recently, I've been looking through the numerous drafts I've accumulated in the list of posts of my other blog, reading what I've written and trying to assess which, if any, have got any future. There are various fragmentary bits of stories, some little more than a couple of sentences, some of which seem reasonably good ideas, but none of which seem to want to fall into place as anything substantive. It's a bit frustrating, really. The only story that I'm making any progress with at all is something explicitly sexual, probably fit only for somewhere like Nifty, which, on the whole, people don't tend to peruse for literary merit. I suppose it's difficult to write about subjects you know little or nothing about, but, on that basis, it seems that I don't know anything about anything, apart from my interior monologue about boys and how interactions with them or between them might play out. Even that is only my overheated imagination in that particular area kicking in, I suspect, because I doubt that any of the scenarios I've written about have much, if any, connection with real life. What I need to do, I think, is to find a way of writing and, more importantly, completing a story of a different kind than those that have found their way into 'Cuckoos' so far, if only to prove to myself that I have the capacity to do it. There's certainly more to being a writer than arranging words in a syntactically correct order, not that I ever doubted that was the case.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B