Tonight has been one of those strange nights when the earlier hour caught me tired and, now that it’s getting later and later, I am still stubborn and reluctant to go to bed. Typically on nights like this I sit at the computer and dig. I shuffle around from folder to folder, document to document. I like to see where I’ve been, what I’ve tried to do, where I left off. Always upon finding an unfinished story that ends abruptly in mid-sentence or with a bit of a cliff-hanger I wonder painfully what my thoughts had been leading towards. I have a lot of unfinished stuff. A lot of barely-started stuff. I used to be slightly ashamed of it, like the existence of all my beginnings and unfinished pieces were proof of my failure. Now I’ve just come to realize that writers do not always sit down to writer masterpieces. Sometimes they may think they’ve got something good, but it may just turn out to be practice. Some writing is like trying out a new car. You get this great idea or a liking for this new hotrod, so you get in and try it out—you turn on the engine and see where it takes you. Sometimes the ride is short, some times the ride is long. It may be smooth, bumpy, fun, painful, but eventually you figure out whether or not it is or isn’t the car for you. When I was younger, I sat down with a single character. I always wrote in the first person, something I didn’t realize until just a few moments ago. But I did. And I would try this person out like a new dress. I’d twirl and skip and curtsy and dance until it fit. Some how a story would evolve. Not the greatest thing ever, of course, but you can’t expect Fitzgerald from nine year olds. Anyway, I never outlined or brainstormed all that much. I just let the story take off on its own. And I was religious about writing it. I don’t know where I found the discipline as a child, but I was more than determined to write and write well. I always managed to find my hero, my love story, my villain, and even if the problem was lame, it was there. And of course, the resolution, which came with or without much warning—usually without. I’d just be writing one day and realize “huh…I’m…done. Darn. What do I do now?” Nights like these, well, they used to bother me. I would get annoyed with having no project to work on, no story to add to, no character to become. I don't know the cause for change, but I haven't been bothered at all tonight by the want to do something but not the mind to move. In other words, I feel inclined to write--really, truly want to write--but there's nothing there. There is no great inspiration (i.e. motivation) to get me to do anything. I've got too many test cars on the lot so I'm not up to adding more and I think I've driven those babies to the ground already. So I just walk up and down the parking lot, admiring them for all their flaws and flickering wonder. I read samples of what's here--I've re-read everything enough to know what it's all basically about. And what I haven't read I don't need to dig in to. I look at story snippits and think, this would do well as a play. I read titles and smile, still liking the names. I guess you could say it's how I get back in touch with my self. I review where I've been--mentally--and remember why, for all these 19 years, I've told everyone I've ever come upon that I want to be a writer. And even though you won't hear that answer today--no, today it goes "photographer, producer", I still want--scratch that--need to write. With let more to add to this reminscent night, I'll be closing up my wordy scrapbooks now and pass along this suggestion: Glance back once in a while. Don't dwell, and don't stare, because if you stare too long at where you've been you're bound to run painfully into where you're going. But do take a peek at your former self. Note your growth, your change, your earlier goals and dreams. Sometimes seeing your old reflection is helpful to bettering your current one. And if nothing else, ancient thoughts are good for a laugh. Carrie aka: J.B. Dreams