Last week I decided to write about money, so I sat down and began typing. I still haven’t gotten back into the routine for writing that I had before my collarbone broke, where I was doing a bit every day and then a lot on Saturday. Even the thought of writing is somewhat off-putting right now–it’s work, and I’m tired, so I don’t want to do it. Ever since they moved me to the Library at work, in fact, I’ve been a lot more mentally and emotionally drained.

But last week I sat down to write and fell right into the rhythm. It wasn’t like riding a bike, because that usually starts off a bit wobbly after a long break, and the muscles get tired eventually. No, it was like drowning, like just falling into a pool and relaxing and sinking in. Letting the water bear me where it will.

I wrote for an hour or so one evening, went to bed, and got up the next morning to write some more. That evening I continued. I wonder if I’ll start writing regularly again.

I desperately want to write fiction, to tell some stories, but they seem so inadequate to me. I have a setting, a theme, and a general… motivator? I don’t know, it’s not really a plot, it’s just a, “Here’s how we reached this point. Here’s what happened.” I know what brought us to the beginning of the story, and I can think of a few things that happen, but not the end or what’s beyond that.

And I don’t know how to write it. I think I’m going to take a 500-level short story class next semester. Maybe that will help?

At any rate, it’s not 7 a.m. yet, but I’m up because Ophelia is a whiny kitten, and judging from the last five “paragraphs,” my brain isn’t sufficiently awake to really be writing (though I did manage to count them, eventually). Despite that, I’m going to try beginning some stories today. Right after I drink two cups of coffee. (Two cups seems to be the sweet spot for my awakedness).