Where do you find a story? Is it in you? And, if so, where do you start looking?
In the past, I have always relied on reading to give me the images and feelings I needed to start writing. But, lately, and after a too long a break, I am finding it harder and harder to reach the story or stories that may still be inside me.
Always, I am at a query as to what to do about this new ailment that afflicted itself upon me, this no name pox that sucked out my nearly last remaining ounce and drop of creativity over these long last years.
I grow tired of always chasing the source to no avail.
I am tired.
Presently, I am on a literary reading binge. I started out with “Plainsong” by Ken Haruf but, it was too slow, despite being a really good read, then I contemplated reading “The Bees” by Paul Laline (I think) but I wasn’t ready for it. So now, I’m reading “The Guernsey Literary Potato-Peel Pie society” which, admittedly, I wasn’t too keen on getting involved with, as I don’t like the letter writing format of any novel, but, as with “Where’d You Go Bernadette/Where Are You Bernadette?” I was pleasantly surprised, and happy to have picked up the book.