Eureka! I think I figured it out. No, not the meaning of life, we all know the answer to that is 42. But I figured out why I struggle writing short stories.
I recently entered a fiction short story contest run by my local library, and I really found it difficult, to the point of exasperation. I had a lot of ideas, and started writing immediately, because the actual writing part is not where I was struggling.
Struggle One: Every idea that popped into my head, could not be resolved within a typical short story format. I tried. I just kept getting increasingly detailed, and no detail could be left out, because how was I going to end the story without all these beautiful little details? Now, this is not a horrible situation to find myself in. I now find myself with a bucket full of ideas for novels in the future, and two new books started.
Struggle Two: I could not find my true authentic voice, because I was trying too hard. Nothing sounded like me. My poetry sounds like me. I write in my own voice, in my own style, and I can (usually) write down everything I hear in my head. Instead, I was trying to sound like a well-seasoned writer. I was trying to sound professional. I wanted someone to read my little story and say, “Fantastic! No one needs to write anything ever again because this is perfection!” But there was no rush of endorphins, sitting there, struggling to chop out words and characters, and feeling. Instead, I only felt deflated. In the end, as I was lying in bed trying to find the answers I needed. (And the answer could not be, “don’t enter the competition.”)
Unfortunately, I cannot tell you some of the things that popped into my head, because this contest has not been judged yet, but what I can say is, one of the ideas behind two rough drafts I started, broke itself down into one amazingly simple outline. And the reason that happened was because I realized that I was trying too hard to be something I am not. Once I let go of the ideas of “professionalism” and “perfectionism,” I found my way.
Now, what I should have done was jump out of bed and start writing it all down. I do not know why I think I will remember everything right before I fall asleep, because it never works. (Honestly, who does it work for? No one, that’s who.) Then it occurred to me that I stop myself, more than anyone, at achieving what I want to achieve with my writing, because I somehow lose my voice, and when I lose my voice, I lose myself behind a bunch of words that no longer have feeling.
I want you to hear me reading my poetry, stories, and ramblings, as if we are sitting around a campfire having a beer. I want a connection, as friends, in a world that continues to grow larger and crazier. Friends, I will keep you updated on the results of the competition.
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