Recently I received word from the Department of Circumstances Beyond My Control that, due to the usual, a couple of my projects will almost certainly take longer to see the light of day than I’d been expecting. The immediate impact is that, well, I’ve got nothing to work on at the moment.

I’ve already wailed and gnashed my teeth over this, eaten maybe one or two cookies more than I should have, and made a mix CD, so what else is there to do?

Write, that’s what. Filey has been holding on to a yellow folder full of story fragments that I’ve accumulated since who knows when. I’ve got few other ideas that haven’t been committed to paper, and perhaps still more are lurking in my subconscious.

I intend to pick one, work on it until it’s not fun, and then move on to the next one. Rinse and repeat. Being down in the dumps about obstacles I can’t do anything about and momentum I may not have anymore was enjoyable for only so long. Now I’d like to regain a little control of my creative life, and the only surefire way of doing that is to focus on the part that doesn’t hinge on anyone else.

Oh, I’m not going totally solo. Last night 4-year-old F listened as I read the first draft of a brand-new story. He was a polite audience, but the material stank. Looks like I’ve got some work to do after all.