Just so we are clear, I am writing. I am always writing. I am writing even when I am not writing. Writing is my life. I live, breath, and bleed to write. When I dream, I am conjuring new thoughts, new ideas. When I wake, I am contemplating stories, plots, and deciding to make it real.
When I was young, I decided writing is what I was made to do. It wasn’t a hard decision. It was a decision that came naturally.
I long to sit at any writing device and bleed the words plaguing me. My demons scream to be released through an outlet, but preferably words flowing through these fingertips.
When I was thirteen, I sat and started writing a novel about a young girl chasing a boy who said he would never leave her, who would always love her. This novel was always with me. I wrote in between classes, during classes, and at night when I was supposed to be asleep. I still have those notebooks.
I have all my notebooks. Hundreds of them filled with words, with random thoughts. I sometimes read the past to see how I have grown as a writer. I have watched my skill blossom and I have often watched it die.
There have been brief and often prolonged periods in my life where writing was lost. I gave up. I gave in. Somehow, writing seeps back into the motivational part of my brain and screams for me to write. Often, reluctantly, I sat and wrote whatever nonsense I could. Some of it is gold, some of it is trash, but it was always a treasure.
I had a dream many years ago. It was a brief idea turning into a great process. I pitched my idea to a few friends. I later pitched it to a website. After 8 long weeks of waiting and knowing my idea was garbage, it was accepted. I was beyond thrilled.
However, my dream turned into a waking nightmare. I wrote the first chapter. I paused. My dream started turning into a weird reality. News articles mocked my dream. Small portions of life became history and writing this idea became something I was sure I would never accomplish. How could I write about what was taking place in reality and turn it into some fictional nightmare?
I couldn’t, so I quit.
I thought about it every day. I was asked about my progress by friends who were excited to know. I longed to keep it going, but writing this possible dystopia was not something I could do.
Months passed. Every once in a while, I would log into the website eager to host my dream, and I would update when the next chapter would be posted. I prolonged it as long as possible – wanted to delete all accounts associated with this untouchable task.
This was just another piece of my life unfinished.
A long night at work sparked a thought about how I would proceed with the next chapter. I fought the urge. I didn’t want to write the next chapter. I was going to trash my idea. It was garbage. But this nagging thought kept at me. I assumed I would forget the opening line as the night drug along and I went home to sleep. I would forget and the idea would turn to ash.
It stayed and grew into a raging fire. I typed 1400 words until the idea became embers – waiting for a new breath to bring it to life.
I am a writer.
This simple dream is meant to become something I will finish. It is liked and accepted because it is possible gold.
There are times when I write for myself, and there are times when I write for others. This new novel is a little of both. Despite what is going on in the world, this novel must be written. My inner demons would have it no other way.
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