Trying to be a writer….

when you’ve got so caught up in the idea you

1. Need an audience

2. It’s a pointless pursuit unless one day you have a book out

ruins your writing.

 

I’m the kind of person who always wants to blend in, never stand out. To be unnoticed. But that doesn’t mean I don’t yearn for some recognition. That I don’t have ‘ego’ driven dreams of being noticed. To be noticed as an author has always felt like a way of being noticed whilst also not having to really show my face. A way of being noticed while also remaining in the shadows.

But my constant yearning for recognition for my writing has made ideas weak if not none existent. I realised tonight, when I sat back and thought to myself ‘I need to write like I used to’ They might have been shit stories, full of factual errors, bit I wrote none stop, so in to the story, the ideas that I’d actually get to some sort of ending. No matter how shit the ending. I wrote for me. Now I don’t write for me. My poetry maybe, but my stories? No they’re not for me anymore. I write for others now, I write to leave some sort of message. And in the end, I get nowhere because of it. I nitpick at my stories so much, I can never complete them.

I need to start writing for myself. But I fear I’ve spent so long in this mind set, I’ll never have any ideas of my own again. I know I won’t be able to just write again, just like that. I’ll have to take a break from it, till my habitual mindset comes undone. I need to write like I did when I was a teenager.

I remember the first complete ‘novel’. It wasn’t particularly good. But I always remember the characters. It was about prisoners who had been sent to an island, because all the prisons were said to be overpopulated. It turned into a game of survival, where the prisoners were landed on this island and then had to survive the flying bullets that would come every day from soldiers that surrounded the island. The  last prisoner left standing was meant to be freed for all his crimes. But the main character ended up befriending and essentially becoming a carer to one of the prisoners who was mentally slow, he was clearly someone who had fallen through the cracks in a system tha pt should have protected him, he should have been in a special facility, not a prison, let alone one of the prisoners put on an island in a fight to survive. Essentially what came out of the story was a sort of father & son relationship. They came across enemies and friends on the island, some of those friends died. The main character in the end manages to take Joe (the mentally slow guy) across the sea, where they were then rescued from an incoming ship. My writing was all over the place. And it didn’t matter to me, because in the end I’d finished a story and I thought the story itself was good. And I loved those characters, I remember I stayed up in my bedroom typing away over Boxing Day, instead of spending it downstairs with family.

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