The idea of writing a story feels naughty. The kind of naughty associated with a double serve of Nigella Lawson's Chocolate Raspberry Pudding Cake (not that I suffer this, but I have heard...).
July and August, and perhaps some of September have become part of a forced sabbatical from writing stories, poems, and anything really, aside from notes in my journal, and, well, lists (and now this blog). I'm too busy reading other people's stories and poems, trying to work out which pieces should go into page seventeen. And then doing all that's associated with getting them in there. With assistance, of course.
The time off works well. Without doubt, before I let myself write properly again, I am itching to get to it. Usually not this early, but that's not something to complain about. Not if I am good about maintaining notes in my journal.
Although I must confess to writing a poem a few days ago. Not the same as writing a story, either in time commitment or in personal satisfaction, but maybe it was what spurred on this creative energy that has me reaching for the journal to note down bits and pieces that may find their way into a story another day. Sometimes it's difficult to avoid writing the actual story, or part of it, but it's all about keeping that excitement there and letting the story brew.
And of course, if I need a proper distraction to make sure I write only notes for another day, other than reading more submissions, I can always turn the oven on and check that I have a stock of raspberries, eggs...