To Be A Writer, One Must Actually Write

Note: if you were following me for my faith-based posts, those have moved to another WordPress: All Things That Grow. Also, apologies for lack of replies to the comments on my Doris Day post. Depression hit hard, but I will try to get to those shortly.

Some time during my second college degree, I stopped writing. Original fiction. Poetry. Songs. Fanfiction. I just stopped. Insecure and depressed and more, I stopped. A few years ago I started writing fanfiction again, but I kept it to myself. Then, I started publishing some of my fanfiction again and have been doing that again for going on two years. I get a lot of wonderful feedback, including comments insisting I work on my own material for publication (some from people actually in the industry which boggles my mind). In spite of that, I have remained largely insecure and have let that – and my ongoing depression – prevent me from trying my hand at original fic on a serious level. I’ll start to write, nothing will happen, and I’ll skitter back to fanfiction where it all comes much easier to me (which I guess makes sense seeing as the heavy lifting has been done and I adore the characters I’m working with most of the time).

It’s time for that to change.

Now that I’ve settled on a pen name that I adore, and now that I’ve been looking at some long term goals I have for the next two years, including moving to a new place while juggling student debt on my current salary (that whopping 2,000 dollar lump payment on one of my loans I just made has me seeing a few stars), I realize it’s time to stop hem-hawing and start creating content. Even if it’s like throwing darts at a dartboard and I end up with a whole lot of nothing before I end up with something, it’s like that old motivational poster: You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take. I can’t be a writer if I never write.

So, a couple days ago, I opened up a new package of loose leaf paper – God knows I have more than enough laying around my room – and started drafting a story idea that’s been in the back of my mind (originally intended as an au fanfic in one of the fandoms I’m in) for about six months.

This is horrible, extremely rough, sure, but I know if I don’t share it I won’t stay motivated. So, I present you with the initial draft first section of what will hopefully be the first completed original fic I’ve written since college.

And I’d like to dedicate this little post to Simoa, whose perseverance as a writer has inspired me and made me dare to try again ♥

    Mitch startles awake from a fitful bit of sleep. He’s unsure of his surroundings until a voice whispers, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

His senses return far too quickly, the acrid smell of disinfectant used in heavy, regular doses and the sound of a steadily beeping heart monitor making his empty stomach lurch, and his eyes focus on the nurse who’d spoken.

She’s still looking at him with a mixture of concern and pity etched on her face. She reminds him of his daughter, if only because she looks about the same age, so her expression leaves him even more ill-at-ease.

“It’s fine,” he finally finds his voice to reassure her. “You’re just doing your job.” A very important job, he thinks as his eyes move to the hospital bed. He swallows hard against the lump that instantly forms in his throat. “Any change?” He hates the way his voice shakes.

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Rourke-Garrett,” she answers, “but he’s still stable.” It’s not the reassurance that it should be to him. “I’m sorry again for waking you,” she says, probably because he’s remained quiet long enough for her to feel awkward. “I’m sure you’re tired and need your rest. Would you like me to call the attending about getting you some kind of sedative that can–”

“No,” he doesn’t let her finish, “but thank you.”

“Are you sure?”

He glances at his watch, pinches his brow and mutters an expletive under his breath. Louder he answers, “Yes.” Standing to his feet, he explains, “I’ve already slept longer than I meant to.”

Mitch gathers his items and starts for the door only to stop and turn back around. He studies the bed for a long moment, his chest growing tighter with each passing second as his heart threatens to break inside of him. A moment is all he has to spare for now so he musters every ounce of determination he has left and turns away again.

He needs to finish what they started.

I’ve written two chapters so far and drafted most of the story out so I’m feeling pretty pumped up at the moment. Here’s hoping I can come back to this post when the motivation inevitably drains, or when I start reading back what I’ve got and cringing, and find a spark to keep me going. I’m not aiming to be a best-selling novelist, after all. I’m just aiming to find my passion for word-smithing and world-building again, and would happily settle for being a humble self-published author on Amazon.