Can you write a lyric? A song? A love letter? A pragraph? An essay? A sonnet? A children’s book? A short story? A heavy tome filled with audaciously elongated verbiage? A Haiku?
What genre–science fiction? Rants? Chick lit? Poetry? Anime? Biography? How-to books of drivel? Mystery? Gore? Fantasy?
When we write, we have our patterns, our styles, our formats. And when we try to break free from our comfortable mold the words halt, the rhythm disappears, the characters stagnate.
Can I write a book? Should I start it as a short story? The people call my name, but their secrets remain hidden even from me. I have the opening on paper, the ending in my brain, the middle parts muddled and confused.
Do I proceed? Dare to let them live and breathe? Or keep them locked away forever—because it is easier to return to the familiar structure? If I create them, I have to confront them and what they do, not avoid their failures, their disappointments, their love, their joys.
The angst of any writer, a dreamer, an artist. The creation. C