Writing to write

 

I’ve been writing more lately, which is a good thing, it means mood is improving.  Maybe it’s spring coming on, maybe it’s a host of other things just kind of coming together and giving me clarity in my life.  Regardless, I’m just happy the ENERGY is there creatively and the MOOD is leveling out and I’m reaching a point of inspiration.  I’ve always considered myself a writer despite the fact that I’ve taken huge break from the art at various points throughout my life.  But ever since I was a child I wanted to write a book.  I had this little mead journal in 6th grade and inspired by the sci fi styles of Michael Crichton and the awe of seeing Jurassic Park for the first time I wrote “Mammoth”.  It was about a scientific expedition to the Antartic to thaw out a perfectly preserved Mammoth (forego geographical, biological, and scientific inaccuracies) the book was full of action, deception and filled up almost an entire mead journal with my chicken scratchings.  My 6th Grade homeroom teacher would read the material and always seemed genuinely enthrawled, I haven’t even looked back on it to see how truly amature it is.  But that’s not what mattered, at that age something allowed me to be in flow…I wrote in this volume all the time and saw the plot progress and saw characters develop.

The only other thing I’ve seen reach that level of ambition in my creative outlets was a short story for creative writing in high school that later reached 50 pages in the hopes to become some mystery/supernatural/thriller.  It was about a writer named Lawrence Wirthlin who had written some of the most revered fiction of his time and yet was left uninspired for some time.  He eventually has a run in with a women who steals his heart for a day, a quite random interaction.  But it turns out the feeling cannot last, as she is married and informs Lawrence she must return to her normal life, but that she can never thank him enough for one day of seeing things from a new perspective.  Lawrence is crushed (being himself a shy and solitary man) and he begins a new piece of work.  Dark, dense, the story of a man (Teague) so evil and a people who can’t seem to comprehend, nor stop the insidious nature of his powers and avarice.  Only one man is unnaturally linked to the deeds which Teague influences.  He knows where they will be and begins to try and interrupt this assault on his community.  Teague, unknown to anyone but a select number of Priests, is racked with guilt and hatred for his ability to control and influence others to commit acts of evil.  Lawrence, in his fit of intense emotion and flurry of writing unknowingly brings these two characters into his own world.  And the 3 become intertwined in making sense of how these things have happened, what is the nature of their abilities, and how to go forward making purpose of their lives; whether it be good or evil.

Amazing how much I can remember of these works where it has been 8-10 years since I’ve done anything with them.  If anything, I’ll let them be a testament to how much I used to, and still do love writing.  But also a harsh reminder that I don’t write like I should despite where a gift for the art has been granted me.  So I’ve been writing in many a forum lately.  I’m doing this blog, I’ve done journaling, writing lyrics, and rough drafting some portions of a memoir.  All worthy outlets.  Maybe I’ll soon enough come back to the realm of fiction, but real life is equally fascinating.  But not a day goes by still that I don’t contemplate that desire to write a book and have it make a difference for some people, have them be inspired in their own creativity.