I’ve been in a funk and it’s lasted a little too long. I was at the point where I could no longer call myself a writer because I wasn’t doing what writers do. Today though, I broke my funk. I went to my favourite coffee shop where they all seem to put up with me sitting there for hours and only ordering a coffee, set up camp, took out my neglected pen and notebook and just started to write.
Why this new lease of life? It seems strange to me too. I’ve got a horrible disposition when work is concerned; I give up if it’s too hard or if I’m not a genius right away. But last night, I just decided that enough was enough. “You’ve called yourself a writer for too many years to let this dream fade away!” The horribly mean part of my brain shouted at me. It’s not the first time it’s done that but it’s the first time I was without crisps or alcohol and Once Upon a Time is kind of rubbish now, so the only thing I could do was listen.
And listen, I did. I took out my story cubes and violently rolled them. Wrote down the pictures I was given and let my brain stew in ideas.
The dice gave me a wolf, a book of spells, a gnome, a troll, a knight, a broom stick, a four leaf clover and a black cat.
The game is to make a story out of those things, which I’m doing.
I had fun today. Which is something I don’t claim to say very often…
We’ll see where it goes.
Story cubes are awesome.