"To write is to write is
to write is to write is to write is to write is to write is to write."
- Gertrude Stein
I’m a creature of the night. It’s when the wheels of my mind start
turning. The thoughts that bombard me are the ones I manage to go all day not
dwelling on. But at night, it’s nearly impossible because there are no
interruptions. It’s the same feeling I get when I have to drive for long
periods of time with no one else in the car, but me. So, I write. There’s no
rhyme or reason to what gets written down or the order in which the words
cascade out from my fingers. *shrug* They just flow out every which way they
like. Sometimes I write about what I’m feeling, but lately, I’ve been
trying to channel all of that into writing a story.
I’ve tried writing before, but I’ve never gotten more than two to
three good paragraphs before I hit a brick wall. It’s the reason I think I’ll
be writing this story forever. I’m going to try not to give up on this one
because…I let someone else read it. I hardly ever let anyone see my writing.
Normally, I just write something and discard it or I keep it where I’m the only
one that can see it, but this time, I shared it with someone else, with a
writer. She liked it and she spear headed an enthusiasm in me that had me
thinking of a beginning and a middle and an end. I’d never gotten that far
before and I was slightly impressed by the story I could possibly weave about
two souls that continue to meet up in life when things seem to go amiss time
and time again, sometimes by outside forces other times by their own
stubbornness, fear, and just plain old mistakes.
I always hear writers talk about their characters as if they’re
all real and controlling their own fates. I was talking to someone who was
working on a novel. I asked her what her story was about and as she proceeded
to tell me about characters, I was amazed when she said that her two main
characters had somewhat derailed her original storyline for them and she was
hoping they would get back on track. I thought to myself, how strange she talks
about the characters as if they’re real people and she’s just a spectator in
their lives, but it’s something I’ve noticed with all writers. I want to be in
that strange place too because the best stories seem to come when writers talk
about their characters as if they’re the actual ones controlling the way things
turn out with their actions.
I call my writings snippets. I’ve written many things. I start. I
can get a short piece. They flow through my fingertips onto the page with such
ease and then? Nothing. It’s over as suddenly as the idea came to me. I want
the snippets to turn into pages and the pages to turn into chapters. But…we’ll
see because my randomness has me all over the place. For now…I’m going to share
one of my snippets that only one other person has seen, but not for long.
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Snippet :)
He was by no means a perfect man. He had flaws like anyone else.
When it came to kindness and a willingness to be helpful to others, a funny
warm tingle stirred in the pit of her belly, a sort of pride that he could be
such a good man, almost to a fault because he tended to not want to hurt
anyone’s feelings, but then…there were relationships.
He was an utter mess. She was a mess all of her own accord, sure.
It had been a mess that brought them together, a period of time where she felt
like she was spiraling out of control and then she saw him walk into the room
when she was out with a group of her friends one night.
She’d never done anything like what she was about to do.
Butterflies swarmed in the pit of her stomach. She was almost lightheaded at
the implications of her thoughts, but she’d never wanted anything more than she
had in that moment and she was used to getting her way. But this time, she
couldn’t see the forest from the trees. She wasn’t prepared for what would
happen when they tripped into each other’s lives. And so it began.
She ached to be near this man, to feel him. It was a feeling she
hadn’t known was there until it dawned on her how much she really cared. It was
confusing. When she looked at him, she could see a lifetime, but she could see
pain and hurt too. She could see a promise of happiness in spite of it all. It
was these raw, unadulterated feelings that hit her with a realization.
She was in love.
She knew it was true, no matter how much she tried to deny
it. She didn't have an eloquent string of words to say why she loved him.
The answer was simple. She felt alive with him.
She knew her feelings were real because they had stayed,
lurked in her heart and soul enduring pain, betrayal, lies, deceit, hurt,
anger, lust, hardship, and now loss. It was this love, so pure and true that
had broken her to the core, through her spirit. She could live her life without
him and she would love again, but he had ruined her because she feared that she
would never love anyone the way she had loved this man. She had fought against
it and lost. He’d taken root within her and there was no going back from what
it had awakened in her heart.
How many times had she asked herself how she’d ended up in this
place with this man? And how many times had she purposely pushed all the
buttons she knew would push him away? And how many times had she sabotaged any
chance of having anything real with him from her naïve assumption that she
could keep her heart from being broken, that she could keep herself from
falling, that she could keep herself from ever being hurt if she never got her
feelings involved. If she never cared enough, he could never hurt her. If that
was the case, why was her heart a mess of broken pieces?
She was hurting now and he was gone.