I am an author. Did I say that right? I am an author. Hard to believe. Every year I participate in Nanowrimo and write a story. I have written three novels that are all in various drafts. I did that. I am an author. It’s hard to believe that I wrote them. I look at my drafts and smile, reminding myself that it’s achievable. I have to remind myself because there are times when I believe I suck and that I could not possibly be an author. When I sit to write a new story I am amazed that I can not get the first sentence out. When I sit to write a new story I am frustrated that writer’s block has pushed me in a corner. Then I look at the drafts of novels I have written and remind myself that I am an author. I get back on my keyboard and try again.
I think I can. I think I can…..write.
To get somewhere, you have to start somewhere. Never give up. Be an author.
I don’t know what we were thinking. That we could get away with it perhaps? Jenny sat in the passenger seat with eyes and mouth wide open. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Why did I get her involved? We came to a red light on Ferge and Cuda Rd. I looked both ways for traffic. No cars on the road. In front of us was the way out of town. I checked my review mirror for police lights and saw none.
My dad’s car, which I stole, rattled as if it was about to cut off. Jenny heard it and looked terrified. I pressed the gas pedal and the engine died. I turned the key again. Nothing. We were definitely stuck. Sirens rang in the distance behind us. I thought about when I was a child as I waited for the lightning then counted until the thunder boomed. Wish I could judge the distance of the police and calculate how much time we have to figure out what to do. With my shaky hand I attempted to rub Jenny’s hair, and she jumped. She unfolded her hands on her lap and there, the blood, our father’s blood. She had the knife. Fresh tears flowed.
Her scream blended with the sirens closing in behind. “Get out of the car!” I yelled. She leaped out and I noticed the blood on my dad’s door handle. My stomach turned. My first thought was that he was going to be mad at me. My second thought was that he could do nothing about it. “What are we going to do, Jon?” she asked. I stared at my sister. She was the one with blood on her hands. “I’m sorry,” I said softly.
As the police arrived I took off across the street. She ran after me, trusting me, not realizing that I had left her to take the blame for our father’s death. Gun fire exploded behind us. I thought of the lightening and picked up my pace. I slid to a stop past the border then turned around. That’s when I saw her, crumpled in the middle of the road like a small dead deer. Her blood now mixed with my father’s blood as it was in her bedroom. I hit him and busted his lip, his blood and hers on the sheets. I defended her and she followed me. I grabbed a handful of rocks as they approached her. They will not touch her. I ran toward her body, throwing the rocks.
A flash of light followed by smoke blinded me. My chest burned. Grabbing my chest, I thought of firecrackers and the 4th of July at my family’s barbeque. Everyone excited as dad set off the poppers. My legs buckled just as I reached Jenny. She looked at me as I fell on top of her. We both stared at each other as death gave us darkness and peace.
Why is it so hard to write the first word? Is it because the mind fights itself even to the very moment of putting the words down? Maybe it’s me. I am a novice trying to come up with a workable writing schedule. Perhaps my writing constipation will work itself out when I start writing on a regular basis. No pun intended.
I’m dissecting Stephen King’s Misery to learn how a story is put together. Focusing on how a story flows, character developments and scene structures will help better my storytelling. It’s an experiment. So far I’m learning a great deal. And what better way to become a better writer than to learn from the masters. I am currently on chapter 12 of Stephen King’s Misery and I have to say this process is showing interesting results thus far. The chapters in this novel are very small (so far), about 500 word count, which in my opinion is great for a fast pace thriller. He avoided what I call “flowering a scene” where everything is described to great detail and provides way too much information. He kept it simple, only mentioning what was important to the story. I also noticed that a scene can take several chapters, unlike my my last novel where I wrote a scene per chapter. I pondered how deep in a scene I can go if I take my time and tell the whole story. Give it life and make it real.
I’ve decided to write a short story before starting a new novel. It has been years since I’ve written one and I look forward getting started. I have several ideas and will pick one soon. As eager as I am, I still dread writing that first word. Maybe it will come to me in the middle of the night as I dream about my alternate life.
“Dying men rarely scream. They haven’t the energy. I know.” -Anne Wilkes
King, Stephen (1988-06-03). Misery
Oh my goodness! I can not believe my writing block has burst into a millions of pieces. The creative juices are boiling in my brain. I just have to keep putting it on paper. Which I hate. Lazy writer here. I wish I could put a wand to my head like Albus Dumbledor and pull out my stories. I have no idea at the moment the point of this new story. Conflict? No idea. Which is good. Finding out is the fun part.
Write everyday. Even if it’s one word. Make it a profound one.