I find myself very excited today and last night I was unable to sleep.
It seems I am excited about my writing again. That has been a long time coming.
When I first started writing it was so intoxicating, so fantastical and mind bending. I had a story flowing in my mind and I was able to put it down on paper! It didn’t even take effort. I would just hold the pen in my hand and watch the movie in my head, then when I looked down it was all in the notebook. Magic!
Then it turned on me. Writing became a chore, a monkey on my back. Once I declared myself a “writer” then people began asking me what I was working on. Too ashamed to say, “nothing,” I pounded out words I didn’t care about and reprimanded those stories to no end.
“Just go down the stupid hall!” I spat at my characters. “It makes more sense if you do and stop whining!” After a while they didn’t fight back, they did what I told them to do, but I had broken their spirits until they were as thin as paper dolls.
Finally, I broke it off with them. Like a messy divorce I told myself lies and made myself believe them. I couldn’t write worth a damn! It doesn’t matter what you write, it only matters if you get published. There is no point in writing a book if it is only going to sit in a Word doc on your computer for years.
But then I began to wonder….why were the stories in my mind in the first place?
I don’t believe things happen in a vacuum. So, if they were in there for some reason, what was it?
Maybe, just maybe, they are there for me. Is that really so hard to believe? Maybe the stories and the scenes and the characters are a gift that has been given to me.
They do fit the criteria of gifts. They come wrapped up and half the fun in unwrapping them. They are surprising. They are specific to me and my likes, they contain everything I love, from creepy fog covered houses and romantic plots and my sense of humor.
I firmly believe if you are given a gift you should share it, but sharing it became part of the problem with my writing. Now I wonder, does sharing it mean what I think it does?
Maybe sharing it doesn’t just mean the actual words, but maybe it means sharing the fun and joy which I derive from the process.
A few days ago, I picked up a pen and a spiral notebook and I watched the movie in my mind. When I looked down, there it was on paper, scrawled in a script no one but I could ever hope to read. It was full of spelling errors and grammar issues and there were doodles on the side of the page.
“Thank you for coming back,” I said to the story.
“Thank you for letting me,” It said back.