I'm thinking again. I've been reading a lot, surfing the internet for all kinds of stories and ingesting as much in my fandom's as possible. A lot of smut, a lot of cute shit, a lot of gore and horror. The vast collection of stories I read is innumerable. But that brings me to my top one struggle.
Reading always provides the plot bunnies for me.
I find themes, shy themes hidden in the shadows, in stories that I really like. Ones they didn't entirely notice, or that they did but didn't develop the way I would like with a completely different set of character's entirely. So I sit here and think of what I could do to make the thoughts go away, and of course that's writing. A lot of writing. I've been writing shamelessly interesting smut filled shorts for the last couple of days and I'm most certainly more proud of myself than I intended to be.
The new plot bunny has nothing to do with smut though, and thats where the shift struggle comes! Yo see, I have depression. I have my entire life just about, and the many thoughts of life ending situations have come into my train of thought countless times. (this is no pity party post so please save your condolences for my mention of suicide, it'll go on deaf ears) But it just lends me to this new anxiety thing I have and wraps up and leaves me with this new original story line.
What if a young man was walking across a slow traffic New York bridge, trying to get home after sleeping with some girl he doesn't remember the name of. What if it's 4 in the morning and winter so the morning joggers are just now stirring and he sees this girl there on the ledge, lent over and minding her own business. He recognizes her, as he graduated from college with her, and he even remembers her name, but he doesn't say anything. He just walks past her and when he turns to look back she plummets to her death.
Why am I so morbid?
Maybe something more will come from that plot bunny up there. Maybe, just maybe.
