On Not Writing

So it's about four hours since I posted that last blog entry. You know - the one where I swore I'd write 1000 words a day. So far I've looked at a couple of 'finished' stories I had - they're both over a year old. At the time I thought they were pretty good and even now I can see some value in them. But the thing is that neither story has any real purpose. A story should have a beginning, middle and an end. It should be about something. It should have a story! Both pieces of writing are incomplete. They are small sketches. Short set pieces about nothing. Perhaps this has been my failing all along - maybe I simply write things and miss the entire point.

I need to draw myself away from the abyss of self-pity here, it can be found alongside the sea of pretentiousness - a place I know well.

Maybe I would be better served by my old Question of the Week answers - perhaps some of them could simply be shaken up a little and turned into pieces of fiction....

And then again, I'm sitting here, in someone's flat, I'm looking at their trainers on the floor in front of me. Shoes conjure up the spirit of someone so much better than their clothes for some reason. Why are shoes thrown out of cars? How often do you see a single, solitary shoe lying by the side of a dual carriageway. There's a story in that.