I just can’t seem to think of anything to write about. It’s not like I couldn’t make something up if I wanted to. That’s kind of what I do. I write fiction. I make stuff up. Fiction writers, for all practical purposes, are professional liars.
They make up stuff about make-believe people doing make-believe things in make-believe places. They kill people, they make love everywhere — planes, trains, automobiles, in space and under water. They travel to far off lands in balloons or by tornado.
Ah the life of a fiction writer.
What I have found out about writing a blog as opposed to writing fiction is you have to be very careful about the kind of stuff you make up. Fiction in a blog is almost like creative writing in a newspaper. A good news writer gives the truth scope.
I want to be able to write in ways that lets me tell the truth in a fictional kind of way. Where I use colorful metaphors and tasty adjectives to show you something with my words. Like one of my favorite writing quotes by Anton Chekhov, “Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.”
To read good writing is like sipping fine wine – it has flavor, sometimes in ways you just can’t quite put your finger on, but you know it’s better than that other wine you’ve been sipping. Some writing reads like the Sears catalog — facts and prices. Others read like the symphony where slight nuggets of delicious sound escapes along the way to round out the full range of the musical experience, rising to a crescendo and dragging your emotions along for the ride.
You ever read a good book and when you finished it felt like you had just stayed on a mad bull for the full eight seconds? I want to write like that. But not today, or so it seems.