Relay and begin the slow process of bringing these characters back to life, I have to stop and think about what makes me write in the first place. Writing is not easy. In fact for most people writing is hard work. It is certainly hard work for me. So why do I fill my free time with it?
I believe it starts with my desire to tell a story. Ever since I can remember I have enjoyed entertaining people. Somewhere along the line I became terribly introverted, so writing was only natural. I cannot stand in front of people and speak, sing, dance or tell jokes. If I had to do any of this, I’d probably melt under the intense scrutiny. Often I’ll make an off handed comment, play it back in my head and cringe at how utterly stupid it must have sounded, and that’s when speaking to two or three people. So writing works because it’s not in person and I have the chance to edit myself and tell myself how stupid I sound. I’ve been writing stories for as long as I’ve been able to write. I want to say something and be heard. I think we all do. The problem is figuring out what it is you want to say in the first place.
It’s easy to say “I am afraid of getting old and dying.” But that’s not compelling. Everyone is conscious on one level or another that life has an end. How we express ourselves about it is what I’m talking about; working through the anxiety to find some meaning to it all. That’s why I write these dumb little stories. I am searching. I’m talking to myself. My brain is slowly digesting the world, searching for a reason in all this madness. It just poops out as stories.
P.S. – Sorry for the lack of April posting, we’ve been sick/busy. Seeing 42 this weekend, will report on Monday.