My blog started six years ago as a creative outlet for my fiction writing. I wanted to share my writing anonymously so I would never have to face anyone who thought I was a shit writer. I started writing poetry, too, and I amazed even myself with how good some of my poems were. Again, sharing anonymously so if I’m the only one who thinks my poetry is good, at least I don’t have to face anyone who thinks I’m a talentless hack.
Then came writer’s block. That bitch showed up toward the end of 2017. Yes, four fucking years ago. Four. Fucking. Years. I wrote almost nothing until about a month ago. On August 31, I started writing what I thought would be a short story about a bunch of college kids. I had written a few notes well over a year ago, but I was never able to turn them into anything. In fact, I have a whole Word document filled with story ideas. The problem is that they’re really only ideas for scenes or characters. Nothing for a whole story.
What I’m working on now has potential, but I’m struggling a bit. I started off strong, but now, with only about 14,000 words written, I feel stuck. I have never made an outline for a story. I wonder if I should try that.
Apparently, Stephen King thinks that’s a terrible idea. He thinks it’s better to see where your characters take you rather than have everything planned in advance because that can be stifling. I see where he’s coming from, but since I seem to struggle to turn my ideas/scenes into full stories, I think it might be helpful for me. And I’m not a Stephen King fan anyway, so fuck him.
Still, it’s a problem because I’m not sure I will even have enough to create an outline. Like I said, most of my ideas tend to be for scenes, not whole stories. Or they’re just character ideas. All of this tells me that I’m really not a writer. I’m not sure what I am. Perhaps I am the talentless hack I mentioned before.
At least I’m enjoying what I’m writing at the moment. Or, I was until I got stuck. I think I’m going to rewrite all of what I have so far from the POV of the leading man instead of the girl (which is how it’s written now). I love the idea of writing his side of the story. I want to get inside his head.
In the end, none of this really matters because this story, like every other one I’ve ever written, is going nowhere. I’m not going to publish. I don’t even know if I’ll ever share anything else here. I guess I’m only writing for myself. I enjoy it (well, when it’s going well). I also enjoy reading (and rereading) what I’ve written, and I love editing. (Is that weird?)
So I’ll just take my files and pretend I’m in college with the hot guy who inspired me.
Who wouldn’t want to get inside his head? (I really wanted to add “or inside his pants” but I felt like that might be taking it too far. Not that that has ever stopped me before.)
And let us not forget my perpetual inspiration.
p.s. — Sometimes I wonder if my active fantasy life is hurting me. I’m never going to have a hot guy (or any guy) in my life who loves and wants me. It breaks my heart. I can lose myself in my imagination, but often, I cry for what I’ll never have.