I feel this void.
I want to write. Fiction.
This is not new, however. The void I’m feeling is for fellowship with fellow writers (and wannabe writers) of fiction. I’ve found a few nonfiction writers that resonate with me, both in my area and online. I don’t comment much, but I faithfully read these nonfiction writers’ blogs and am fed and encouraged by them, including: L.L. Barkat’s Seedlings in Stone; Andi Cumbo’s AndiLit.
I haven’t found, however, very many at all fiction writers I click with.
Now, maybe I can’t be picky; I don’t really write yet. I certainly haven’t written yet. I’ve picked up, here and there, and begun to write, but then a huge nonwriting project (albeit still usually dealing with the written word) is thrust upon me, stealing all times when the house is quiet. Or maybe I’m scared away. But these are problems of writers, and to solve them it feels like communing with writers who understand me would be a good place to start. But I can’t commune with people I haven’t found.