It must have been there for a long time but it had never asked to be scratched.
Now it is driving me insane. And I have given in to the urge to rub at it gently, gradually digging in my nails a little, and finally ripping at it with no reserve or restraint.
The itch to write fiction. I am not a fiction writer, let alone a flash fiction writer. Am I even a writer? That’s a question I dislike either asking or answering.
But recently I have succumbed to the call of the contest. Flash fiction contests covering a multitude of topics which have put my brain into overdrive and my fingers into action.
‘Flash’ because they require short pieces. One hundred words only. Or 299. Today’s was in two 99-word paragraphs. All of them with a beginning, a middle, and an end.
They make me think and hum and chew my nails. They make me stare out of the window at the long grass in the garden. They make me inventive, adventurous and clear. They make me wish I were at home typing, not at work dealing with someone else’s needs.
Because I need to do these. I don’t necessarily want to. But it seems that I have to. For if I don’t, the desire just doesn’t go away.
Like an itch that needs scratching.