...again.

I haven't written anything since May 21^st.

When I say I haven't written “anything,” I mostly mean fiction, although obviously I haven't posted any blogs. Of course there have been academic articles aplenty, various class discussions on magazine journalism and essays on Shakespeare. I've put my signature down on some new paperwork, but I'm not quite sure if that counts.

Meanwhile I've half-heartedly fulfilled my resolution to “do more” this summer. Between my fantastic trip to Houston, multiple trips to Panama City Beach (which both rank well in my book), signing off on a new apartment, summer classes, and entertaining various guests, I've kept fairly busy. Many friends will soon be joining me in Orlando and frankly I'm giddy.

But this is brentWRITES. Where's the writing?

I think I may have found it. Somewhere between the lethargy and wackiness of my everyday life, it's there. I've been meaning to do this for awhile, but it just hasn't been in the cards. No, I haven't been effectively following Stephen King's four-to-six-hour rule. Sorry, Mr. King. I'll try harder.

Let's talk fiction.

Writing fiction, whether or not you ever hope to publish it, can be quite bewildering. For example, 110 pages and 30,000+ words is probably a poor time to realize that a story would probably work better in present rather than past-tense. Freewriting proves to be very effective on some days, on others I'm scribbling notes and outlines. New ideas are aplenty. Good, fresh ideas that are worth fleshing out are somewhat harder to come by.

Every time I polish something for potential publication, I'm quickly reminded of why I haven't submitted anything in many, many months. Because what's the point of precious “publication” when it feels like every other fiction blog and “literary journal”I find publishes little more than vulgar, minimalist depictions of one-night stands where the protagonist is chain-smoking electric cigarettes and lamenting how much they hate their parents, all the while the music of (insert trendy band here) plays in the background.

The good stuff exists, though. I've seen it. No, our generation of young writers hasn't been completely dismantled by awful, one-trick-pony shock authors. There's hope.

If nothing, the poor fiction I see floating around has managed to influence my editing ambitions. At this point I'm not exactly sure where I'm going with my own fiction, as it's been fairly all over the place lately. Some projects need tending to, and others perhaps simply need to be dropped altogether.

And with that, you know that I'm still alive and writing. Ideas for new blogs are indeed brewing.

Until then, be well.