Their words spin and twist through my head like leaves caught in the wind. Sometimes they whisper, sometimes they refuse to speak to me, and sometimes they yell with voices that wrap around my heart in endless longing.
They have always been there, waiting for me to listen.
Listening to them is hard. They speak all at once, no one wants to wait their turn.
Sounds a little crazy doesn’t it?
But it isn’t. It is just my writer’s brain. It is full of people waiting to be heard, waiting for their chance to tell their stories.
I ignored them for a long time. I’m not a writer.
I didn’t know where to begin. I’m not a writer.
I was afraid to try. I’m not a writer.
This thought process went on for years, until one day the longing, the urges, the need was just too strong to ignore any longer. I told myself it was just like making art, no one ever had to see it. It wouldn’t matter if the stories sucked, at least they’d be out of my head.
This is how my sordid love affair with writing began.
I love words. Some words are so delicious, the way the sound, the way they feel on your tongue, the way they rumble around your mind.
I didn’t feel good enough to use them. I loved them so much. I didn’t want to fail them.
I have yet to write a finished publishable piece. I keep trying. Calling myself a writer is far harder than claiming my artist status ever was.
I currently have 4 WIPs going and two story ideas trying to get my attention. I need to get them into some form of finished-ness. I think I’ve finally let go of trying to get them right. I’m focusing on done.
I have some questions for you.
What keeps you from telling your stories? (real or fictional)
What are you afraid will happen if you do or don’t write?
At what point in the writing process do you get stuck?