On Writing

I’ve been mulling over this point the last few days, but wanted to let the thought sit before I posted anything. I know the title is stolen from Stephen King, but it got your attention didn’t it? (Yeah Sarah’s a monster, I hear y’all in the comments already jk no one comments on my posts)

Yes, I’m going to be sharing with you guys the moment I realized I wanted to become a writer – scratch that – needed to become a writer. Let me explain.

I need to write. Its so engrained and natural to me, that I couldn’t imagine a life without it. Now, do I expect to become a bestselling author with cool author friends and a large fan base (we all have dreams okay)? No. Do I expect to ever be published at all? No. I’m content with just my beta reader (Hey Madelyn) reading my work just fine. It was never just a career choice for me. It’s something I have to do.

I hadn’t really given it much thought, but I remember writing from maybe fifth grade (or even beforehand). I loved to read, which should have been enough of a sign.

But recently I started thinking about the writer in me. I love creating stories from nothing. For me, I can’t just look at a prompt and do just that. I have to develop it, and build a world of characters, problems, solutions. I don’t really know how to describe it actually.

Then it was whenever I watched a movie or show, I’d unconsciously think about how a scene would have been written as a book. I’d sometimes translate a scene to words in my head as an exercise of showing instead of telling.

Most recently, it was my tendency to romanticize things. For example,

Writing to me is late nights and fast thoughts
It’s hot coffee on a chilly morning
It’s that ah-ha! moment when something that’s been gnawing at you for days on end comes to a close
It’s whenever I’m doing just about anything and I know I’m not alone

No matter what I’m doing, my mind drifts and suddenly I’m not sitting there moaning over calculus; I’m watching a scene play out in my head. Someone’s story dying to be told. And that scene repeats, or changes. Sometimes new characters come in, old ones leave. But it’s still there, waiting for a story only I can write.

And I think the final thing would be, that I can’t stop. I’ll admit it, I’m at a wall with my main piece that I’ve been working on. Yet somehow, two more ideas came to me, and I’m writing those now, all while pondering how to best conquer this latest slump. I can’t stop. I don’t care if I can’t make money from it. When I’m jobless, it’ll still be there for me. Waiting for the next word, the next line, the next chapter, the next book. And I’ll deliver, even if no one else reads it but me.

I think those qualities in me, combined together, make me the writer I am.  I couldn’t imagine how I’d live, with all these stories in me just wanting to escape and be told. I mean it when I say sometimes I’ll be hit at the most random of times, like driving or when I’m getting ready for bed. My mind will work at hundreds of miles a second, but I can only process so much of it.

I’m not giving up. I refuse to be intimidated by the starving artist argument, or the idea that I’m not giving up. I’m proving it to myself, and everyone who ever doubted me. I owe it to the voices in my head. (no I’m not schizophrenic please don’t shoot me its a joke jesus)

Did any of that rambling make sense? This post didn’t come together as cleanly or anything like I thought it would. But maybe this was the way it was meant to be.

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