Written Whispers

Okay. My outline for that short story is done and my outline for BD is well under way now to get seriously into writing. It’s the best part, almost orgasmic to one as easily pleased as I but… one problem. I’m almost afraid I won’t be good enough, like I’ve lost something.

See about a two years back I wrote all the time. I didn’t bother with what I would have deemed ‘that outline crap’, nope not me. I wrote the stuff from start to finish. Mind you, nowadays I’m better at planning my plots and having things make sense but I’ve done very little of that straight out writing. The stuff that makes books, the stuff that matters the most. Then I went back into foster care and I’m sad to say it but it only took a year and a half to break my spirit, my new found self, and when that happened I slowly stopped writing. I was not permitted to express myself spiritually and though they could never take what’s inside me away- expression is like breathing. You take all that is around you in the world and sift through till you find your particular brand of oxygen and take it within yourself. Eventually what is within must come out in order for flow to continue, in and out, in and out. Expression must eventually take place. Thus I would be punished in an assortment of ways though I’m certain it was not looked upon that way and I almost don’t blame them for doing what they thought was right, only for what they knew was cruel.

Anyways, so I shut down. I stopped writing all together because I couldn’t. It hurt. For example, if you are trying to hold your breath and you let just a little escape it’s almost impossible to keep from letting the rest out. Or if you are a dying man in a desert, to come across a single piece of chocolate like a diamond in the rough. You eat it and then find yourself starving even more than before, tortured almost. I was like that and so I could not write. Escaping into my world of fantasy became a forbidden fruit that I willing forbade for the sake of my survival. I had to do it. In the end I took up journaling. It was less creative and every entry sounded suicidal. I took that journal with me everywhere. It was my only relief and I write everything in it, guarding it with my life- with good reason.

Back to the point. I’ve been out now for a year. One blissful, dream come true, I thank goddess I’m alive kind of year. I’ve gotten back into writing even more so than before since then but I’m still afraid that I’ve lost a certain special spark. I know I can do this though, it’s just hard making myself. Like diving in the ocean when you know you haven’t swam in 50 years. That’s a bad analogy for me as I can’t swim but whatever.

I was going to call this post ‘Unreasonable Fears’ but after writing it I’m pretty sure I have a perfectly respectable and legitimate reason for being afraid that I may have lost some talent so I’ll call it something else. Whatever the case may be, even if I have lost some of my flow- I’ve learned so much. How to better plot, make my characters more in depth, take breaks to eat and sleep between writing periods, and how to find my narrators voice. Heck, my spelling has even improved though if I can help it you’ll never know how bad it truly is. Goddess bless spell check on blogger. Really an ingenious idea.

Muse of the moment: Kitten. He’s all tuckered out from playing fetch with little sponge ball like toys. I don’t know if cats can see in color but he seems particularly fond of the pink one. Right now he’s sleeping on my Hunny, all stretched out and using his paws for a pillow.