Iliad to Odyssey: Becoming a Writer

“You become a writer by writing, there is no other way. So do it, do it more, do it better, fail, fail better.” -Margaret Atwood.

 

I can’t stop writing; I have so many working projects it’s slightly entrepreneurial.  Realizing recently how to write actively and correctly in an engaging way has taught me how to engage myself. I began writing vigorously a year and a half ago and I haven’t been able to stop. Always labeling myself a procrastinator, I quickly realized this was not true. Now, I like to call it, “high-level multitasking”. Starting large projects for myself, jumping into one, putting other ones aside until I need a break from it and then rotating to another; this is my cycle. Currently, I am watching my life goals blossom and I am becoming more comfortable within my garden of progress. I put down the whiskey and started putting all that party energy into myself and, holy shit, I’m a fucking unicorn. My words are getting better and better and I cannot wait to share my books with the world.


Finding myself sitting back in amazement each day on all the writing I have pushed out, puts a smile on my face. Not just the writing, but also the evolution of becoming comfortable with myself and the way my words and styles are advancing. I am also WAY LESS harder on myself when I do not write for the day, which these days is rare; discovering myself and marveling at my own imagination.

I have seen these characters I am building my whole life and now they have backgrounds and lives ahead of them. It is wild to be a storyteller and I am taking all this in for myself while passing out gratitude for how freaking amazing it is to be able to sit and do what enamors me, Girl Uninterrupted. There are not enough hours in the day to write. I fall asleep with the next chapter playing out in my mind. The characters’ lives changing with my moods. I find me putting a million different directions into their build. I visualize all of it and feel I need to explore each part of the process more and more. When I take a break, I find myself writing blogs like this one.

When I was in 5th grade I wrote a story called To Timbuck Two. All I remember was it was about a cowboy that went on an adventure to find out how far from “here to Timbuck Two” was. It won 2nd place in Young Authors. I didn’t enter it into the contest, my teacher did without me knowing; she thought it was worth a read and so did the judges apparently.

This is where my fiction career started and where it ended. Every time I would pick up a pen after that, I would write about how bad I felt my life was. Writing poetry about an unthriving world, or depression and the lackluster of life and love was becoming redundant, each new piece a list of synonyms from the last piece I had written, never changing pace. Joining the Military, I wrote news stories that would bore the eyes out of a statue. Following the 6 year Military stint, I quit writing. After 5 years of not writing, something happened, I started to listen. I wanted to learn to write a story. I wanted to learn how to create a whole new world. I wanted to share the pictures and plays I see in my mind. Moreover, I had to change my world in order to share it all.

At first, there was a bunch of rubbish and really cheesy one-liners. However, the incantation began to get louder. I started listening to the conversations around me and in my new awareness was able to build my characters from all of them. I started reflecting on all the outrageous stories in my life, which half I could never make up. Memories were becoming the formula for my apologue. I started feeling these characters’ emotions and decided they all needed to be conscious too. I wanted to forge my own Odyssey, and I needed swabbies.

We live in a parallel universe; I truly believe this. So who is to say that the story I write isn’t indeed the life of someone else within the parallels? What if we are all stories and as we begin to fade back into the earth, our souls linger by, waiting for someone to breathe life into our narratives from some other plane. It is something I have thought about and within this thought, there are a million universes and even more epics to be shared. Maybe one Universe is where ideas are being created and the larger consciousness shares, while another plane has its own purpose in quantizing the lives within other planes. All the while, mine is to sit here and write what parts of their life will be shared among ours.

Either way, this is the life being written for me and I will write for those who need a lift into their next chapter. I will write till the stars fall from the sky and light my page. I will write until the moon catches the sun and until the bones in my fingers curl in and my knuckles become the grasp. There is nothing I have ever wanted more in this life than to be a writer, I just never got to harvesting the seeds I kept planting, reaping the benefits, which was acquiring the patience to continue writing. Dreams come in packages and you have to tear them open to get to the gift. Process is furry, which creates unimaginable possibilities, enjoy every one.

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