the more conflicted I become about what I write.

Those of you who follow me on Twitter and Facebook have seen part of my frustration with my current reading material. The main problem is that my current source of reading material is my mother, who all of a sudden is only interested in reading “good” writing, which to her means depressing stories. And I’m not saying she’s wrong. I’m just a little worn out from her selections.

Not that they’re not good. They are. Take tonight’s reading, The Bright Forever. Excellent book. Read it in a sitting. But damn.

I read these books, and then I look at my own writing and think “fluff.” But then what I want more than anything else at this very moment is some fluff. Something happy and silly, something to take me away from the dark world I’ve just climbed out of.

Problem is, I’m not great at writing happy and silly, either.

Which is probably why I’ve not written much lately.