*Written earlier this morning, sent when I was more awake*
Hello my lovely creators!
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my evolution as a writer. I’ve concluded that I have a fear of commitment to my writing. When I was pondering this, I started by saying, “I think I have a fear,” however, by saying that I think I have that fear shows even less commitment to admitting that fear.
I know what you’re thinking, “But Virginia, you are writing, what do you call this?” Well, yes, you are correct, but when I talk about having that fear, it’s more about the idea of sitting down and working on my longer pieces. It’s the story that requires me to completely immerse myself into the plot, the characters, the emotion that comes with really feeling out the story. Now and then, I do find myself delving into my work, but I always seem to find an excuse not to do it more often. And I wonder what it is that keeps me from wanting to dive so deep into my work.
Recently, I went out to this beautiful mountain area that I’ve never been to despite living here for a little over five years and visiting several times before that. We drove up this long road that had several curves, and I’m sure it would have been quite enjoyable if only I weren’t sitting in the back seat. The entire ride, I sat next to a fussy baby and a dog panting at the back of my head. The only view out of my window was the up-close side of the mountain. By the time we got to the top I was definitely car sick, but it was worth it. It had to be below 30 up there and there was snow and fog everywhere. It was the most beautiful piece of nature I had ever seen in person. I would have lived there if I could. As I was standing there surrounded by all the trees and tiny waterfalls, all I could think was how much I wished I had somewhere in that place I could go and write.
Ever since we moved to this new apartment, I had been hoping that having my own space would help me write more. The funny thing is that so far it hasn’t helped me write more of my stories, but I think it’s given me more desire to work on this blog. I’m more conscious of how long it has been since I last wrote, and I’m more willing to put the work into it. So I think there is definitely something to the idea of having your own space, which is something I’ve talked about before many times. Perhaps this is my gateway drug to getting my butt into gear. Still, I wish I could live in that place up in the mountains.
So here’s the crux, I’m clearly very much in my own head and able to write here, but how do I switch over to the piece of space in my head that will allow myself to get in that story writing mode? It’s an ongoing process that clearly will take time. I need to carve out a space of time for myself that is not crunch time before I have to get ready for work, or that moment just before I have to go to bed. Hell, I was supposed to go to bed 45 minutes ago, but had a sudden thought and had to start writing. I need to find that time in my day, every day, for just this and nothing else. I think that is the only way writers can genuinely get down to the business of it. It’s a commitment to yourself and your work, and that’s good for you. I don’t know why it scares me so much.
Yall simmer on that, and in the meantime, you can check out something I wrote a few years ago when I was broke, looking for a job for several months, and living with my sister. It’s a little rough, but I thought it was an interesting find from my journal. If anything, I can see the evolution of this blog. It seems to be evolving past 100-word stories and letting yall see my evolution as a writer. If any of this moves you: like, comment, share.
Suddenly, she dove across the table. Too surprised to respond, Neil could only sit there with his fork halfway to his mouth. Diana continued to make her way across the table, her right hand clawing at his sweater while reaching out to strike him with her left.
By the time Neil came out of his stupor, all he could do was try to push her away, while still holding his fork.
Every time her hand managed to find a spot to land, she let out a screech.
“I hate that scarf. I hate that sweater. I hate the sound your nose makes when you breathe!” She had managed to drag herself across the table. With all her might, she forced him out of his chair, dragging him to the floor.
“Most of all, I hate that you don’t listen to me. How many times must I tell you not to scratch my grandmothers’ plates?”
It was then that Neil’s hand seemed to move on its own. The fork still clutched in his fist, caught the light of the dining room lamp as he buried it in the side of Diana’s neck. Like a balloon being let loose, she flew off Neil’s body. Her fingers scratched at the side of her neck as she stumbled around the room. Blood began to pour from the wound, and as she pulled the fork, the tiny leak became a geyser.
Neil, still lying on the floor, watched Diana run around, screaming in pain. Her bloodshot eyes looked as though they would burst from her head any moment.
“You stabbed me. I can’t believe you stabbed me.” She stared at him in disbelief as the blood poured through her fingers.
“Sorry,” Neil replied with a shrug.