Once upon a time, I wrote a fantasy novel. I haven’t spent too much time on my specific works in this blog, mostly because I had intended on having another blog serve to deal with my “I’M A WRITER, DAMNIT!” thoughts. However, I’ve been in a weird sort of mood lately, and I really just want to talk about stories.
I didn’t start out writing fantasy when I decided writing was the craft for me. In fact, I was just a little obsessed with a time period of history/country called Ancient Egypt and writing a story set there. I was so obsessed that some of my early internet usernames were based upon characters in that novel series. I started that series when I was 17, finished the first book when I was 21, and started up the prequel (because writing out of order is just awesome, let me tell you). Then, the story just crashed and burned.
It wasn’t because the plot couldn’t sustain itself. It could, and I still hope that it can. However, the time of life I was entering, I found myself consumed with other things that distracted me further from the closeness I had experienced with the characters.
Two years later, after writing hundreds of poems, reading a dear friend’s own fantasy work, and trying to work through some visions of plot that danced in my head, I decided to start working on a fantasy novel. It started a lot smaller in scope, and now it sits as a waiting trilogy, but I really believed in the storyline and I admit, it was a lot of fun to write.
That’s the background. Now, here’s what I’m trying to get at.
A few posts ago, I wrote about going through some old writing, finding that 23 year old me, and reliving the past relationships that have since faded with time. I have struggled for years to get myself back into a writing sort of mood, and that Monday was a trigger moment. The following weekend, I actually worked on my writing. I was happy, but a little sad, too.
Since I left high school, writing wasn’t just about me getting whatever thoughts in my head out on paper, but rather a sort of social interaction I held with classmates, friends, other writers, and often, I would just spend an entire night talking about plot points, worries, and directions I wanted to take. It wasn’t selfish. I listened just as much as I talked. I spent countless hours with other creative people, letting the pulse of their own exploration inspire and motivate me to be bigger, better, and stronger as an artist.
I really enjoyed myself, reading the words I wrote about a decade ago, edited seven years ago, and wrote in a very changeable winter. But, part of what I missed was knowing I couldn’t really share that with anyone. I couldn’t do anything but pace the rooms of my house, whispering my thoughts on working through the bad areas of writing. It was a lonely process. I really didn’t like it.
This isn’t a foreign feeling. I’ve been struggling with it for the past seven years. Every time I went to write, that beautiful urge faded as I felt so alone with it. I wasn’t comfortable with the change, so I’d give up.
Yeah, self-inflicted writer’s block.
It doesn’t have to be that way. I don’t want to be that way. I’m sick of letting it be that way.
Time for a change.