I come from a family of writers, not necessarily all published but there is a bunch of us. My mom, my dad, my sister, my uncle, my nephew, various cousins; we are just crafters of the written word.
I took a major hiatus from writing. I wrote for my high school paper as well as wrote plays in my play-writing class. But then college came along and my time management skills suck. Unfortunately with me it’s a use it or lose it thing. So except for a few ‘zine creation attempts my writing went pretty much by the wayside for 10 – 15 years.
Then came the movie The Avengers, which will forevermore be my holy grail, my muse, my epiphany. I wrote my first piece of fan fiction after that movie and have been writing ever since. Not only have I completed seven fan fiction stories but I’m working on several more. I’ve also written a straight fiction novel and started writing non-fiction again in the way of movie reviews. Words now occupy my already crowded brain twenty-four/seven and there is not a day that I’m not thinking about a current story or a new story.
But lately, I’ve been ignoring my heart, fiction. I’ve left many of my poor characters abandoned going days, sometimes weeks, without writing about them. Stories are left un-updated. A few have been rushed through, because frankly I miss the feedback.
Tonight I read through all of my in-progress stories, with the exception of my novel because it’s currently 116 pages. I realized halfway through that I was tearing up. It was like visiting old friends that you’ve been so busy and neglected. I could see the times I had rushed the storyline to get it done when I had other work to do. The characters weren’t themselves, the plot didn’t flow. It just reflected my own anger and frustration of not getting the words to come as fast as I needed them to at that moment.
I fully expect restless sleep tonight as I vividly dream of a hundred plot bunnies. But that’s okay, I’m a fiction writer, it comes with the territory. Besides, I miss my creations, my playthings, my friends.