wee morsels of confidence

i was a prolific writer in my day.  of course, “my day” was approximately 20 years ago.  in high school and college, i wrote angsty poems and stories with angsty heroines in love with tragic heroes.  was the writing any good?  probably not.  did i write anyway?  absolutely.

thankfully, most of my angst is imprisoned on 5-inch floppy disks with no possibility of parole.  which is just as well.  the point is: i wrote.  and i wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote.  i didn’t care if the writing was any good.  i didn’t care if it was ever publish.  it was a carefree pursuit.

sometime in the past two decades, i started caring.  and in caring, i found the fear and trepidation that is – apparently – common amongst writers: what if no one likes what i write?  what if i write something good and can never write anything else?  surely no one will want to read what i have to say.  the list is never-ending.

and while i’ve ventured into noveling by way of nanowrimo, i think the salvation of my writer’s ego is not in the overwhelming all-you-can-eat buffet of the novel, but in the elegant petit fours of flash fiction.  small victories.

my flash adventures begin here:

i invite you to join me.  go on… it’s only a wee commitment.

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