Eight Days...

That's how long it's been since I sat down and wrote anything longer than a status update. Eight days.

Ugh.

One of my constant goals is just to write. Not necessarily publish, though that's a subgoal (blogs) and a another subgoal (submissions) this year, but to just write. Sit my ass down in the chair and write.

I feel better when I write.

I write more when I write consistently. I know that sounds obvious, and it is. Do something more often and you will do it more often, but it's more than that. When you stop writing the gears get stuck. You get stuck. You start to doubt that you will ever be able to write another word again. But when you are writing consistently you loosen up. You let the words flow more freely. The pressure lessens, not just because you are letting the words out but because you are letting so many words out the urge to be precious about them disappears. So what if what I write today is crap, I'll write more tomorrow sort of thing.

But it's been 8 days since I've sat my ass down in the chair and written.

I can tell you why. It's been 8 days since 17 people were gunned down in Florida. It's been 8 days of reading and watching the reactions to that shooting. The cycle we go through, again and again. And, yes, in a LOT of ways this time has been different. There is a feeling that maybe this time something will change. But I don't trust it. Not yet. But the utter vileness coming from some on the Right directed at the kids that are speaking out shows me that they are worried this time. And they are never worried about this changing so maybe. Maybe this time.

But it's been 8 days.

Eight days of watching a friend of mine who used to teach at that high school work through her shock, grief and anger. Eight days of watching other friends of mine who are currently teachers talk about what it means to them to do "active shooter" drills with their students. Eight days of listening to people talk about arming those same teachers when they don't even trust them to teach without a test. Eight days of listening to my friends who are parents and the fear they have sending their kids to school every day.

Eight days.

I told Brent this morning that I write a lot of things that are kind of wacky conspiracy sort of stuff. But in a fantasy level. In a supernatural bent. That I like to write about things that make you question what you see, but that it's really hard to do that when you have people in the real world who believe in things much crazier than the make believe I come up with. A friend of mine who writes post-apocalyptic things has had the same problem for the past few years. It's hard to write fiction worlds that are starting to look all too possible.

So now I am sitting down and writing. It's not good. I know that. But it's words. And I'm still not pushing those 17 in to a further corner of my mind just yet. They are still there demanding that I pay attention. Because, as you all know, people in my stories don't stop demanding you pay attention to them just because they died. In fact, that usually means it's time to pay more attention to them. Eight days. Seventeen more deaths.

Maybe this time it will be different.