The stories continue, but so does life. They don’t always get along.
I am nursing a minor illness today and on my first day of PT for a persistent back injury. I’m giving myself a break from the struggle of concluding Raiders. It has been a struggle, especially towards the end. Feels more like grunt work.
But I don’t give myself a break from my five minutes! That won’t do at all. So instead I ramble and pretend that, maybe, this is still a sort of practice. Maybe my foggy brain is forming a few new links here and there. That’s my operating assumption, anyway.
Why do I write stories? I have a very strong need to do so. Or at least to tell them. Running roleplaying games is also a good outlet for that, but that has all sorts of logistic issues as an adult. I also like the idea of every other sort of art: music, painting, drawing, digital. Writing feels the easiest to me, though. It flows the most readily. Possibly because I’ve been practicing the basic skill of it my whole life.
It’s also a really easy toolset to work with. Music needs instruments (unless it’s singing, which has been my most practiced form for that reason), physical art needs an ongoing paint supply, and digital art… okay, I’ll admit that’s just me not wanting to put the effort into learning it. I dabble, as with so many other things, but I’ll never get good enough to really create like I want to.
My brain is full of visions of wonder. I just want to learn how to share them.