This one is going up a bit late because of a yearly vacation. I am trying to get better about unplugging altogether during these times, and am not professional enough to preschedule a post for my week off. At least the dozen or so of you out there know that you're getting fresh bullshit right off the keyboard.

There are quite a few works in progress that I have going right now, but nothing worth spit shining in a hurry. I have been thinking more about process and creativity. I have been transcribing the first draft of a short story from longhand to type. I'm also writing another short story that I hit the wall on, and am searching for a way to advance the plot I want.

Revisiting fiction in earnest in the last year has been a lot harder than these posts, and even harder than the deadline-driven and topic assigned writing I did freelancing. (Granted, I wasn't the best about meeting those deadlines.) On the one hand, I'm reading more, meaning that I can better perceive what I am not doing well. On the other hand, when just beginning, exactly how good should I be?

I wonder how much of this is driven entirely by ambition? That I want to write and actually get published overrides writing solely for the fun of it. It digs at the heart of the weird ego trip at the center of creating any sort of art--that you're at once doing it for enjoyment but also looking for an audience to consume it.

Creating art in almost any sense is already an odd sense of ego; doing so in middle age can often feel like self-delusion. Though honestly middle-aged guy trying to be a novelist is a cliche right behind screenwriter. I'll also cede that if you think success is waiting just around the corner, you're likely eligible for the Dunning-Kruger club.