Just Write…

Being a part of a fiction writing group on Facebook has led me on a journey filled with discovery and understanding. The group, Fiction Writing, consists of thousands of members, many of whom are published both traditionally and on their own.

Over the last few weeks of being a member, I have read a great number of posts where people are doubting their ability to set a scene, create natural sounding dialog, or even tell a story in general. I have commented on some posts, those that I know the correct answer or may help them gain inspiration in their endeavors, but in reality being a writer is much simpler than the write, edit, revise, rewrite, repeat, process.

Writing is digging deep inside ourselves to uncover truths we ourselves may not even realize until it is typed or written on the page. We struggle at times to figure out the story in front of us because in truth we struggle sometimes to figure out our own story. Life is a giant web of decisions, one after the next, that leads, I hope anyway, to a better understanding of ourselves and the world we live in.

My advice to all those who aspire to write, are writing, or have written works, published or not, that find themselves in that hard spot between “I’m so excited” and “Where the he’ll is this going” is this, Just Write.

It can be hard sometimes, but we are writers. It’s not like we aren’t going to sit down with our favorite writing medium and write anyway. It’s more than a want, it’s a need, and at the end of the day, all it takes is just one thought to stoke the fires of creativity in us again.

Just write…

~ Jon~

The Dreaded Process of Self-Editing

Over the past three weeks I have been attempting, seemingly in vain, to edit a novel I wrote three years ago and promptly refused to look at again. This is that story thus far…

In the middle of 2017 I started the process of writing a sequel to it, and subsequently had to fact check some information in the first novel. I cringed at what I had written. Only one person I know read the work after I had “completed” it, and upon reading a single page of the work I contacted that person and apologized for what they had read.

This is not an overstatement of how bad the work was, it is terrible. I feel better knowing that I can tell myself honestly that my pride and joy first novel was a total piece of garbage. Yet, probably because it’s my baby, I still have faith in the overall story contained in the jumbled, incomplete, and sometimes completely incoherent storyline contained in its pages.

Everyday I sit at my desk and stare at a page from it. It’s grueling to even proofread, and ultimately I am slowly rewriting the entire thing. Truth be told, that’s what it comes to sometimes. Even if I dread deleting all that work paragraph by paragraph, most days accomplishing nothing on it.

In three weeks I have only managed to make it through about fifty pages, and the only thing that makes me keep going back to it is the hope that when I reach the end it’ll be a decent story. I’m being honest with myself on my writing in all aspects. There are good qualities and bad qualities about every author (which is why editors exist) and I know that if I can make it through this I can edit anything else I’ll ever write.

So the things I’ve learned already in the last three weeks that I’m going to share with you tonight are as follows:

Always be honest with yourself!

Commit to the project, even if you falter at times, it’ll be better than the first run through it. (It has to be, right? :-P)

Sometimes it’s quicker and easier to rewrite than it is to edit.

Thanks for reading my rant! I hope your creativity is flowing and your self doubt is minimal! (considering that we can’t be artists without it…)

~ Jon~

Write One Page Per Day – 20/365 – January 20, 2018

The fog flowed across the lake with the wind. The sound of wind chimes could be heard from every bank as the dingy rowed slowly to the center of the body of water. Sam had a plan but he needed to make sure that everything was perfect. If it wasn’t, everything would fall apart and the soul of Eliza, his wife, would be gone forever.

He reached the center of the lake just as the church tower on the western back began ringing loudly that midnight had arrived. Sam reached into his backpack for the hide pouch of magical herbs and quickly the it overboard. All he could do now was wait for the boat man to arrive.

Nearly ten agonizingly long minutes passed before he finally saw the silent form of the boat gliding across the water. Sam swallowed hard but it became stuck in his throat as the visage of the skeleton on the keel became apparent in the dim light shed by his lantern.

“Why have you called me here mortal?” The boat man asked. Sam felt bile rise up in his throat when he saw that there was no flesh on his face.