Help me, Papa
Have I been a journalist for so long that I can’t write fiction? I have a folder full of story ideas, including a brand new one for a terrific novel, and a one-act play crying out for revision and publication. Yet, I hesitate. Fearful of failure, I won’t even try. The Muse can sleep through this one: I need a taskmaster. She’s still asleep on the couch anyway. Waif-like, she fades to translucent with every exhale. Drool runs down one cheek.
I recoil from fiction to post in blogs, and I send tweets to followers I don’t even know. With articles, I talk to other people. I tell their stories. It’s safer. Easier somehow. How did Hemingway do it?