Alone and Unobserved

A couple of weeks ago I decided to take up writing again. It wasn’t much of a decision; the choice was either to give in and start getting my ideas down on paper and out of my head, or to begin experiencing embarrassing word-related “episodes”—speaking in tongues, maybe, or writing irate letters to the local newspaper.

In any case, I meant to siphon stories off one by one, as needed—a short story here, a flash fiction piece there, with a chapter or two of a novel on the side. Unfortunately, what I imagined would be a genteel, well-bred pastime like tatting or woodworking, something that behaved itself, that I could pick up and set down at will, has instead been like trying to take a refreshing sip from a firehose. The words, the ideas, the stories, the people! They have taken over my life! I don’t ever get to bed before 3am anymore, because at about ten o’clock I sit down for a quick editing session and end up plotting and typing and revising until the break of dawn.

What is writing like for me? It’s like being locked in a struggle with an immensely strong man, and never being quite sure if it’s a wrestling match, a make-out session, or a fight to the death. Sometimes it’s like running full-tilt down a steep slope littered with boulders, exhilarating but exhausting, and impossible to stop without a painful collision. It’s leafing through fabric-identification guides for hours, trying to find the perfect pattern for my heroine’s 40′s-era print dress, or trying to keep my eyes open for two more minutes while I try to get my narrator’s voice exactly right.

So, if I fail all my classes this semester (which is not outside the realm of possibility, unfortunately), at least I’ll have some short fiction to show for it. And maybe a chapter or two of a novel.

P.S. Remember to check out my webpage if you want to see samples of my writing.