After numerous efforts to step up production, the Story Factory has been shuttered. Low production, low staff moral, and poor raw materials have all added to the demise.
But out of the ashes, the blog arises, anew. My daily routine involves morning pages, which as of late consisted of my writing essays about how hard it is for me to write fiction. Well, duh. The essays are actually easy. Could it be that I am actually an essayist?
As usual, E. B. White said it best:
The essayist is a self-liberated man, sustained by the childish belief that everything he thinks about, everything that happens to him, is of general interest. He is a fellow who thoroughly enjoys his work, just as people who take bird walks enjoy theirs. Each new excursion of the essayist, each new “attempt,” differs from the last and takes him into new country. This delights him. Only a person who is congenitally self-centered has the effrontery and the stamina to write essays.