This week, word guru Chuck Wendig has offered a different spin on his weekly Flash Fiction Challenge. He asks to write a summary of a simple phrase, “Why I write?” Three simple words have a layered and complicated answer.
Why do I write? I have often stared into the mirror, examining the haggard face mocking my every move and wondered the same thing. I have written many things over the years, but never have I actually set out with the purpose of writing stories for the entertainment of others. Unlike other writers I have not: 1) been writing stories since I was a toddler 2) had a life changing experience that gives me a desire to write 3) been writing for years, honing the craft to perfection 4) suffered a loss that could only be expressed through written word 5) been abducted by mimes and held at imaginary gunpoint over an invisible typewriter forced to tell the history of the International Association of Assassin Mimes and Reptile-Training Plumbers. None of these things caused me want to write. Continue reading
For the past two weeks I have posted very little here. I have however written a great bit. Now for the frustration part.
I have put my baby on the back-burner! Continue reading
To continue on from the emotional theme of yesterday’s pathetic entry I am going to ramble on about emotions in a different setting. As I have stated before, this drivel you may have found yourself sucked into browsing is my foray into the world of blogs and eventually into published literature.
Ok, let us be honest. I am writing to myself in the hopes that one single unfortunate soul out there might pick a tiny speck of wisdom or inspiration from my chaotic ramblings. Now that I think of it, this whole blog writing experience is kind of like a literary psychosis. In the likelihood that no one ever reads a single venom-laced word I have poured forth then I am in essence speaking only to myself. That means I am only twelve cats and a few bodies posed around a table in my basement from being completely insane.
In a literary sense only.
Of course Continue reading
Last week was an extremely busy week for myself. I sadly did not have a chance to do much writing anywhere. I did spend many minutes thinking about writing, about the various projects I have going, and about the elusive novel that seems to be slipping from my grasp. It is so much easier to sit back and write a few short stories, feel a sense of accomplishment, then move on to something new. The big book is draining. I can spend a few hours working on it and feel like I am on a gerbil wheel, running my little legs off but never gaining any real ground. It is emotionally taxing. Possibly because it is my first attempt and these are waters I have never swam in. I don’t understand the currents of these waters. I don’t know at what point I go from wading in the shallow end to slipping into the deep abyss of the deep end. I don’t even know what creatures swim in these waters.
The last one I am learning. These waters are filled with a variety of creatures. Some benevolent minnows that tickle my toes, offer advice and critiques. There are also venomous snakes in these waters, that ease up next to me with a graceful presence that belies their ill intent. These snakes offer me advice wrapped in false promises. They are not snakes but fresh waters lampreys hoping to siphon out my soul and cause he to run screaming from ever daring to tread these waters.
So alas, the emotional gambit of this undertaking is higher than I expected. I was just senile enough to think this project would be easy, something I can use to fill my spare time. However, as in the past week when spare time is a luxury I cannot afford my pet project creeps into my thoughts and fills me with bitterness. Aggravation at not writing, not writing more, not writing better, not writing to a 2nd grade reading standard. Bitterness at not writing but not wanting to write, at wishing I could do something other than think about writing.
Emotions are high. However this emotional relationship I am forming between my imagination and my fingers is proving to me that I am invested in this endeavor. Because I care so much I must be on the right track. That is my hope at least.
Finding excuses is easier than finding reasons. I have two daily hobbies that I enjoy doing, but do neither as often as I would like. I love to work out, and I love to write. Both leave a small sense of exhausted satisfaction after I am done. Horribly both leave an empty sense of failure if I skip either. The days I skip both, I toss and turn in bed, that confusing “I forgot something” feeling itching at the base of my skull. I wander aimlessly for that 2 AM cigarette outside and watch bats flitter around the streetlight, dive bombing bugs for a nightly snack. Continue reading