I know I’ve said this so many times before, but stories are a part of us. Especially the stories we write. Even if it’s complete fiction, the writer/story relationship is still strong, our lives interconnected with that of the words on the Microsoft word document, or even with the annoying blink of the cursor.
Writing is a place where I don’t have to hide from myself. I can be honest and open and aware. In my mind, no matter what I am working on, I’m writing it for myself. Granted, some things I do intend to publish eventually and other things are for my personal outlet or enjoyment, but no matter the case, I am still writing for myself as an audience. This means, ideally, that I can learn something new about myself every time I sit down to write. When writer’s block takes over, sometimes insincerity comes along with it, but that is eventually overcome and I am the only one in the audience once again.
This past summer, I was sitting in a coffee shop, raging mad at something (I don’t remember what it was now), but I had planned on working on my novel idea that day. I had it in my head that there is no way I can do anything productive with my thoughts all over the place like that, but alas, I picked up my pen anyway, because I promised myself I would write at least something. Even if I just vent and write incoherent, rage-filled psychobabble, that’s still something, right? So that is what I did, and somehow (with some revising and clarifying), those 30 minutes of angry word-vomit have become my favorite part of my novel.
Don’t ask me specifically how that happened, because I don’t know. But I think honesty had something to do with it.
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