Okay, I know, I know.
That’s my problem.
I’ve been writing for others for so long that I forgot how to spin a story from my own mind.
And now that I actually want to write for me…
I don’t know what story I want to tell.
I could literally write anything. About a pear that hitched a ride with an outer space alien and robbed a liquor store. Only, turns out that outer space alien had been living in pear’s backyard as a stalker for seven years, isn’t an alien, and definitely kidnapped a real alien in order to steal it’s intelligence and technology. And who knows what the fake alien wants with pear.
But do I care?
Let me tell you, no, I do not care.
And I don’t know what I want to write.
I don’t know what stories I care about now.
Interesting thing is
this doesn’t bother me.
It’s a stepping off point.
A cliff that isn’t actually a cliff.
It’s a new beginning.
A blank page.
I get to do whatever I want with it.