Updated: Sep 9
I finally feel like myself again. I don’t know what happened to trigger the low, angry, unproductive end of my writing scale but that was the worst it’s ever been. Prior to discovering creative writing at age ten, I’ve never gone more than six months without feeling that writing is freedom. These last five years have been hellacious, uncensored, traumatic agony as I fought to put words on the page.
Last week, I was working on an emotional story that I anticipated concluding around 1600 words. I knew the story needed to come out and knew that my initial loose plan was for less than 2k. I finished my story on Monday and what unfolded was more than double my estimate. At 4600+, I cried when I read it and I was instantly anxious for more. My hand feels empty without a pen. My page looks naked without a story and I have oh, so many ideas fighting for center stage.
I’ve missed this.
On Tuesday, I dipped my toes into a different story. A couple hundred words later, I worked on something else. It wasn’t that I was bored or stuck; I had so many ideas that I didn’t want to limit myself to one thing.
Yesterday, I started a new story. It’s a genre closer to my heart—death, destruction, psychological turmoil—and a style I’ve wanted to try for a while. With this story, I know who survives but not how, I know who dies and some of the methods but who dies how is part of discovery, and I have a basic grasp on the kind of person it takes to cause this. The rest of this story is unfolding on its own.
I wrote several hundred words every single day this week. Those who know me well know that sleep and I have a bitter, tumultuous relationship. I’m used to a lack of sleep from stress but this week, I couldn’t sleep until after I wrote. Today, I woke up five hours before my alarm because I couldn’t wait to write again.
This. Finally, this is who I am.
Fiction projects: 4
Finished stories: 1
Fiction words this week: 5,000+ (not including last week’s 1400)