I decided to submit a short story for the My Brother Jack Awards again which is a local writing competition. Of course, I have no delusions of winning prizes for creative writing because I find this type of writing difficult. It’s as if I have to get out of my own selfish ego and write about someone else.

I haven’t figured out how to do that. I’ll always seem to put my own voice into my stories.

Nevertheless, I started to write a story about a man named Viktor, with a K.

This morning I pumped out about 1000 words with relatively little to no planning or how the story would unfold.

My original theme of the story concocted while driving my car one day has been ditched out the window and replaced by this strange story that is not going anywhere.

That is, I seem to write – and keep on writing – I’ve added some curious suspenseful bits but it’s not moving along. I say to the reader that they have a choice.

However, I can’t seem to get to that point where I tell them what that choice is.

Much like how I write normally – droning on a bit.

I liken the character Viktor, with a K to a Rupert Everett character who speaks with a plum in his mouth.

It’s fair to say that I’m no wordsmith but I’ll see how I go. Much All of what I write is sheer utter tripe and part of me wants to just open up a book by Hemingway, Murakami, Orwell – and scrutinise how they write their sentences and then create my own using their words as a template of sorts. Follow their styles, tempo, sentence structure, rhythm. What I’m missing though is their depth.

Everything I seem to write lacks that. I want it to mean something.

I’m always disappointed in my own writing. Makes me feel a little bit empty but I think it’s because I haven’t invested into the characters, nor have any idea of how the plot will go.

I think I just lack imagination to be honest.

Sigh.

Back to the drawing writing board.