Writing used to be the funnest thing in my life. I wrote out of love and desire. I wrote with joy and passion. I wrote without fear. Then I became successful. Not great. Not huge. I got into a creative writing program and I realized that I was going to need to write to other people’s standards. I started becoming concerned about what those writers thought about what I put on the page. I started thinking maybe if I cannot be like them then I cannot be good. I don’t blame my program. The first thing one of my mentors, Joe Geha, said to me was, “Yeah, you’re good. So now what?” That struck me. It told me that knowing I was good–hell being good–isn’t enough to be successful. It took another decade for the fear to really creep in.
I used to be connected to some greater force of storytelling. I could lay in bed at night and tell stories about characters I’d just discovered. I would relay entire lives in that moment. I thought in character. I lived through character–not plot. I think the fear came from loosing sight of characters and trying to compensate with plot. I’ve never been a standout plotter. I can write one and make it decent, but I am no all star plot legend. What I did best was character. I haven’t been connected to that greater force in some time, and I’ve been compensating through plot. I have been doing this out of fear to reach for character and find that I am no longer able to find real voices. To find I am forever cut off.
I intend to do myself a favor and reach again. Around 4 am I woke up with a story in mind. I don’t have the plot of it exactly, but what I have is an image of the shadows of the people involved. It feels like I am close to taking a step back towards having access to that thing. I’m not there yet, but to quote Coach Prime, I’m commin.