Last night was sort of “I’m relaxing here” night for me. I wasn’t editing; I wasn’t writing. I’d just spent the day getting an article finished and didn’t really feel like getting into editing mood. It was time to sit and think about what is coming next for me.
And in doing that, I started going back over what I been doing here, in this blog.
In fact, it wasn’t just this blog I was going back over, but I was sort of my history of writing that was under review.
I’ve been doing this blog for about 6 months now. I started it at the end of April mostly because I thought have a blog would be a good exercise. As you writer, you get better. As you get better, you learn how to figure out styles and plots and characterization.
In short, the more you write, the better you get at being a writer.
Originally I talked about things slightly political. Why? Because at the time I was into that. Back at the end of April and the start of May, yeah, I was there. I was big into politics.
But in time that changed. By June I was fed up with a lot of things. Politics (same old shit), writing (I couldn’t bring myself to do anything), life . . . it was all a very big bore for me. I didn’t write much of anything in June. In fact, I nearly gave up this blog because I felt I had nothing to say–and even if I did no one was listening.
Then came an idea for a story . . . and an idea for another . . . and one for a novel. I started writing my story, and decided I’d talk about what it was like to write. So I blogged about writing, what I was writing, what I felt about writing. Sure, some times I’ll get off the beaten track and talk about other things, but I’ve usually stuck to the point of talking about writer, or those thought relating to writing, and how it affects me.
And that brings me to my old writing. My old life, so to speak.
Long, long, time ago–we’re talking maybe 10, 12 years ago–I wrote a lot of strange fiction. To say it was fetish fiction would be a bit of an understatement; it was straight up fantasy wank material. I didn’t always think that, but I knew that it would likely be used that way.
I didn’t care, however, because I was writing. At the time it was the only way I knew to express myself; to do anything else would have been far too difficult because, frankly, I just didn’t have it in me to return to trying to write a novel. I was far too emotionally and mentally scared.
So I wrote about things that weren’t your normal stories. It pleased me because they entertained people. But I never actually took them seriously.
However, I’ve spoken at length about this. But speaking and showing are two different things. I’ve shown Trusty Editortm some of my work, but the majority of it . . . not a chance. It’s been a part of my life I’ve never wanted out for others to see. Oh, sure, she’s asked, but every time I’ve said no.
Because that’s not been something I wanted people to see.
However, over time, I’ve grown softer. I’ve begun to allow parts of me that I’d never let out before come out.
And today . . . maybe Trusty Editortm gets a present. Maybe they get to see what I was like back then.
You know, if I’m lucky, they won’t run off screaming. they’ll read them and go, “You were strange, but you were also good.”
Hey, isn’t that what all writers want to hear?