It’s Monday, which means it’s a great opportunity to post a bit of fiction. Yesterday I almost posted another humdrum entry about how I’m stuck and frustrated. This happens about once a week, it’s not news. We’re writers, we have roadblocks, we overcome them (usually).

Recently I’ve come to the realization that writing is an extremely organic process. It can’t be forced. So I’ve been taking a lot more time to write in spurts, short exercises that have no direction or purpose other than to practice. I’ll be posting these on here in hopes of helping others and sharing. Sometimes I read other people’s short tidbits of fiction and find inspiration, so maybe I can share that with my readers. Or maybe it’ll just be a mess that doesn’t mean a thing. Such is the way of writing. Take it or leave it.

It’s impossibe- sitting here like this and knowing that I’m useless, shoved to the side, hopeless. You give everything, everyday, every ounce of yourself, all for nothing. There was a time, once or twice, perhaps long ago now, where I thought I meant something. That I was bigger than myself, someone with promise and a future, life laying before me like a colorful forest just waiting to be traversed. Yes, I used to have something called faith and dreams, as bloated as sponges. I would sit and daydream, forge a future of promise as those that are young and uninformed do. They allow themselves to hope, to aspire, to strive for the things they think they can do. For if you believe it, then it must be true.

Lies are the heart of life. It starts young, the untruths, they are small, harmless, mere rocks that impede us. As we age they become boulders and then mountains. And when an entire continent blocks our path we begin to question everything we’ve been taught. Because there is no open road, no path that will lead  us through this hell. There is only loss and grief and hopelessness and fear. Fear that we will never achieve greatness, never see our names splashed like colorful paint on black canvas. For we are the rocks, the boulders, the mountain. We are the very thing that sabotages our own existance. And we flail and flail and flail with no direction or purpose. We are blind. We are lost.

We are nothing.

There it is, a look into my head this morning. Additionally, here’s a photo of my manuscript I’m editing. It’s a glorious mess. I love it.

All the best!

Kacey