It takes a while to write a story. For me, it might take a lifetime. Since to be human is to be finite, I guess I have to keep writing and hope that my ideas and actions outrun my mortality. I’m really trying. I am giving it everything even when I’m not. I’m obsessed. I’m a self-admitted fledgling, flailing, failure of a writer. But I finished one book, and then another. Ultimately they were shit. And then, I felt like shit for having written them. And now I feel like deeper shit just because. After the rejection of my book by a publishing house who (as one former writing pal stated) “publishes anyone” I didn’t cannibalize my talent and bury my writing dreams under nine feet of unfinished ideas. No. I toughened up, gathered all the resilience I had in me, and tried again. Oh how I tried.
“If at first you don’t succeed,” they say. “Try, try again.” Maybe I’m simply a shit writer. Maybe I should accept that and move on. Write for me. Not for success or validation, just me. I was happier in the immediacy of writing. When I went with it, no matter how much it stunk. When I wasn’t stressing over turning the right phrase, researching until I forgot what I was researching about, finding an editor, getting an agent, finding the right publisher. Going at it alone. Finding the equity to go at it alone. Stressing over every paragraph. Beating myself up over my stymied education. I was happiest, I am happy when I simply write. Cliche riddled and all. Adverb, ellipses abusing, untraveled, and uncultured dreg that I am. Continuity be damned. I’m going to tell my story.
Happily. I am happiest when I’m free to just be.
But even then, it takes a while to write a story.