On Writing.

I used to write in high school for fun; just to see if I could.  I remember the first piece I sat down and wrote on my own that wasn’t a journal entry or a school assignment.  It was a fiction piece and it had nothing to do with myself.  From start to finish, I think it was ten pages handwritten and I completed it in one sitting.  I remember that as I was writing, it was as if a movie reel was playing in my mind – like I was dreaming while I was awake, which gave me the unique advantage of being in control of the dream.  It was entirely freeing.  It was my way of experimenting with reality and of seeing an outcome of some event without having to actually experience it, hurtful as it was.  After I was finished, I was especially shocked with how the story unfolded itself.  I had no outline for a story when I put pen to paper and what I came up with was a story with romance, intrigue, and a twist in the end that no one could have predicted.  The closest story I’ve read to it that I can think of is Richard Matheson’s “Somewhere in Time” (otherwise known as “Bid Time Return”).

It was about a boy and a girl who’d been in love since junior high.  They grew up together.  And after high school, the boy chose to stay in his home town and work while the girl chose to go off to college and experience what life had to offer.  She was much more free-spirited than the boy, who was somewhat conservative.  While at college, the girl made a new group of friends who introduced her to drinking and real parties; college life as we know it.  She stopped calling the boy and slowly they drifted apart, much to his dismay.  One night, she went out to a party with her friends and no one was designated to be the sober driver, so when it came time to go home, they went with the least drunk person to get behind the wheel.  As the boy was sleeping that night, he dreamed he was at the party with his girlfriend, following her around with her group of friends and trying to guide her although she was completely unaware of his presence.  He watched her get into the car with her friends and he watched the car crash into another car head on.  All of the passengers died in his girlfriend’s vehicle and when morning came, the boy never woke up from his dream.

I don’t know what exactly this story expressed about myself, but I’m sure a psychoanalyst would have a ball interpreting it for me (and I’d probably find some useful advice).  However, I do know that when I gave it to my brother to read, he loved it.  So, I then gave it to my best friend to read, who loved it as well.  Then, I began giving it to random classmates to read, and when they also enjoyed it, something sparked in me.  I wanted to write more – and I did – but after a while, the effect wore off.  I found something else to occupy my time.  I still have that ability to sit and free-flow words out when it’s something I’m interested in, however.  I’m able to become fully invested in what I have to say and I’m so grateful for that.  Now, if only I could focus that energy whenever I needed to.  My biggest problem with writing is starting.  It’s all downhill from there.