If you do something long enough, you have sufficient experience to contemplate what you may (or may not) have accomplished. You also use that past time to consider what else you might think to do. In my case, I’m talking about writing (although baking bread comes in a reasonably close second).

My formative works were short stories largely grounded in educational assignments. Creative imagination was all that I displayed (i.e. the nature of the story with perhaps a surprise ending). In studying the greatest short stories that had come prior, I had little of what made a short story great or even good. They appeared to be closer to recitations than emotionally deep pieces of the human experience.

In recent years, due to writing contests, I have made some effort toward flash fiction. While I was able to keep within the parameters of 500 words, they still come across for the most part as a snap of the fingers or a firecracker. There is more associated with the surprise or shock of the story than anything in depth. I am fully aware there are those who write flash fiction who have a much better handle on it.

From about 1980 to 1995, my writing of choice was poetry. My journey has been well documented in the posts of this blog throughout the years. Those with whom I associated, the events and venues, my readings across styles, all of it led me to what was, for me, the pinnacle of the poetic experience.

But now, over thirty years later, I would find it taxing to write poetry after so much effort put forth into fiction. To be immersed in prosody and to study versification was the engine that drove my efforts. I read some older works and am pleased but wonder too often what it would take exactly to return to that.

Even insofar as fiction is concerned, I have been in the middle of historical crime fiction for over ten years and thoroughly enjoy it. Once The Wichita Chronicles series is finished (I’m guessing by this time next year), I’ve already started on a new series and am researching yet another. My fascination for history will hold me close to this genre.

However, an idea here and there pop into my head out of the blue. Stories that have a spark that perhaps deserve to be expanded upon. Notions that are contemporary in nature, firmly rooted in a sense of humanity, filled with emotions. Many of these ideas fade, not because they are not strong enough but largely due to the historical roots firmly embedded in my creative psyche.

The whole scope of my writing throughout the years is clear to me in a retrospective sense, both behind me and in front of me. I do not discard anything, neither the difficulty of returning to old ways, nor the complexity of attempting something new. I will not be dragged down by uncertainty, but I will allow whatever notions stand out clear and proud to guide me further along this journey.