Sometimes, after writing for a while, I find this fantastic scene scribbled all over my notebook page. I think, maybe this will be the story I finish. It is always wishful thinking.

I've tried my hand at "flash fiction," (stories or scenes under 1000 words) and I like it because I can finish what I start. But flash fiction is not entirely satisfying to me. I have this itch which can only be scratched through elaboration, but when I elaborate, I always end up on these unnecessary tangents which lead me to dead-ends. But this is just one of the common aches of being a writer. I guess what I could use is some serious determination.

Here's a chunk of a story (which I suppose could be considered a piece of flash fiction on its own.) I thought it would go well with my little rant. As always, feedback is amazing.

I cannot concentrate. I have been trying to wrestle even a sentence to the page, but feeling defeated, I put my head down on my desk. It’s been weeks since I last wrote something: a shitty tanka poem ripe with images of citrus fruits and observations on size and shape.
The television hums in the next room, the volume at a notch hard to ignore. I want to tell Nolan to turn it down, but I don’t like to sound high-maintenance. Instead, I shut the door, cover my ears, I strain most of the sound out but still, my head is swimming. I wouldn’t be able to focus in even the most peaceful of silences.
I realize headphones would help, so I strap a pair on my head, and miraculously, I pull from my ballpoint tip a thin string of inky adjectives and verbs. A warm wave of relief rolls through me. I just let it flow, birth the words like eggs in speedy succession.
Mid-sentence, I smell it. Edgar, our Doberman pinscher puppy has shit on the carpet. With a theatrical sigh, I clean the mess and find myself feeling this bitterness toward Edgar--an animal who has no idea what bitterness is or where it comes from.
I plea: “Cut me some slack, Edgar,” but he just looks at me with unknowing eyes.