News at 11.
It's one of many short stories about her. It is meant to be poignant, memorable, sweet. Like her. But it's flat. Flat as that funky cowlick on the back of my head. I read this one and get to the heart-stopping punch line at the end completely dry-eyed. I am working on a short story about the many things I miss most about my mother. It's a story of preservation and death, a montage of our intertwined lives -- I'm her, she's me, we are one, but we are not -- but the story is about as emotionally engaging as my flat cowlick.
The good news is that I and I alone have the ability to turn a brilliant, touching, true story into a press release.
Yes, rather than breathe life into this story, I'm continually draining blood from it.
Oh, the horror.
What to do?
Well, if "writing through it" works for writer's block, surely it works for writer's suckingness (the term I'm giving my current state of ineptitude).
What do you do when you think you're writing sucks? Or, am I the only one who's ever experienced this?
I gotta go do something with that cowlick now.
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