In sixth grade I filled an entire exercise book with crappy poems. In class, I covered every open space in my homework diary with little stories and thoughts instead of listening to the teacher. I lent said exercise book to a classmate back then, she moved away shortly afterwards and I never got it back.
In eleventh grade I started taking part in an online community where we were given a short paragraph every month and had to build a crime story around it. We commented on each others stories, rated them and in the end a winner was declared for each month. Never mind that it was a marketing move created to sell the book series and that I never won anything because the other people were adults and had much more experience in writing stories than I did. I loved the shit out of that community and was extremely sad when it was taken down because they had promoted all of their books.
In twelfth grade, I rather jokingly declared during a PE lesson that I wanted to be awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature one day.
Here I am, about seven years later and I haven’t even written a crappy poem in years much rather a short story. Last night as I was about to fall asleep I suddenly had an idea for what I wanted to write but I didn’t get up. I knew I would forget what it was in the morning and I did. It wasn’t even that important to me anymore. But I also didn’t want to actually start writing then and there because that would have meant me being up well past my bedtime and I had to go to uni the next morning.
It is a strange feeling, finally having an idea you want to put on paper, to form, mull over in your head and expand into a whole story. For me, those ideas usually come at the most unwelcome moments – when I’m about to go to bed or cannot fall asleep. There is something about being in the dark, being tired but not too tired to think clearly that just screams writing moment at me. I usually don’t follow my instincts though because, as I said, the rare moments I feel like this are ill timed.
I guess I will never be the writer my 17-year old self wanted to be so badly. I haven’t even written a story in years much less do I possess the ability to write well or create interesting plots or follow through with anything. I cannot help but wonder if I traded in creative writing for blogging. Maybe not fully but at least to some extend. On here, I don’t have to write conversations, think of a plot that does actually make sense. Instead, I write what is on my mind and am fortunate enough to have people read and (sometimes) comment on it. Blogging is just so much easier but I do miss the fiction writing. I’d like to write something semi-biographic as I’m sure most writers do, they draw from their own experiences. I want to write mysteries and love stories and mush them together into one great novel but I feel like a phoney because what do I know about love and mystery plots? Everything I know comes from TV shows I watched and books I read.
Maybe one day, when I’m old and grey and actually have the time and experience to tell something interesting I will be able to do it. Until then, I will continue to bore you with trips down memory lane and random crap about my life, until then:
Goodnight and have a pleasant tomorrow.