Fiction as Real as My Breath.

I’ve been writing so much serious non-fiction I’ve forgotten how to write fun, lighthearted fiction. Or non-fiction, I guess. I don’t really have any stories to tell. Some people, I’ve seen them, they have stories. Characters, plots, rich new worlds of imagination…. I don’t. My aborted novel is testimony to that – it’s awful not so much due to lack of writing as a lack of clarity. I don’t own the world or the people in it. A half-baked idea without the passion to bring forth real creatures. To be fair, I don’t care that much. That lack of passion for storytelling goes all the way down – I don’t care so much for it OR for the fact that I don’t care. I imagine some day I’ll have some stories...