As I said yesterday, the major part of my life is governed by writing, be it poetry, prose or just random dialogues written in a span of ten minutes. So far, writing has been an occasional pleasure, only scribbling narratives or descriptions in the middle of the night or whenever a class turned out to be exceptionally boring and loathsome. Despite all this jumbled routine, a desire to pursue this path has settled in my soul.
In the past couple of months, writing short stories of maximum ten pages was more than sufficient. A reduced plot, episodic characters going through a gripping and suspense-filled experience found an end suddenly. At that time, it seemed convenient. Juggling writing and other occupying activities is no easy task. Virtually ignoring sleep deprivation, contradictory feelings or even mean, mendacious comments, I kept on going. But what happens when an idea begins to haunt you? To be more like an everlasting obsession?
It wasn’t abnormal or abhorrent. I recognized it as a novel idea, one that had enough power to propel me further, to keep me fueled until the very last page. I’ve never envisioned myself as a novelist, not even close to this domain. A spark was immediately ignited, as much as I wanted to deny it, to misplace it as a dream that will never come true. That’s when I became an assembly of both apprehension and euphoria.
Finally, I had it, the grandiloquent idea I have long searched for. However, it’s exclusively my duty to keep the action and the instances revitalized. I never wanted this amazing, fragmented idea to perish, to become a collection of excerpts from “a book I’ll never write”, to be forgotten in one stack of coffee-stained, decayed papers.
Well, it’s way more psychologically demanding than I would have ever thought. The practical writing itself is facile, but putting up with the harsh reality truly feels like a preternatural exodus. Being constantly reminded that literary people are not worth it, that writing is outdated, obsolete and even weird, that you are a total mess, a falling persona who can’t write on a daily basis, that your style is far too complex and ingenious accumulated with time.
So, why stick to the reality? A reality that managed to slam down my writing numerous times. I’ve browsed, documented myself, and countered pros and cons. One night, with the blood boiling fervently and a doze of motivation rushing in my veins, I made a decision. I decided to step out of the dark shadows. I want to be a literary person. And so what?
It is my long-buried passion, my vocation, the pure expression of my inner self, the unique product of my imagination. I’ve grown tired of hiding it. So, I’m stepping into the light, with a fragment that it’s an intrinsic part of the prologue that I’ve always imagined. The prologue of that idea.
Fun? Turmoil? Constant, unnecessary stress? It was hard enough for June Scott to find a suitable adjective when so many dissipated voices could be heard around her. Nameless faces, most unknown, all virtually strange, were surrounding her, muffling some guttural sounds she couldn’t quite comprehend. “It will be hard to call those people my colleagues for the next four years,” She thought to herself, exhaling a strangled sigh. Dressed in a simple, maroon dress, with her albino legs exposed to the stinging wind, June seemed utterly lifeless and disoriented. Her frizzy, black hair was tightly knot at the back of her head, some rebellious strands cradling the sides of her face.
The weather was beyond horrible. An impenetrable layer of grayish clouds obscured the light of the sun, the usual sight of the local hills –clad in rose and amethyst- was nowhere to be seen.
“Loosen up a little. It’s normal to feel this lost in the first day,” a small voice said from behind June.
“You’re the only calm person around here. Everyone is pacing around,” She said in reply. Dee had always been the voice of reason and motivation. With her plain, almost too casual outfit, black jeans and a floral, vintage blouse, her glass-covered hazel eyes remained way too serious.
“We’re all one name on a list,” Dee said, moving her oval glasses just an inch higher with the pad of her thumb. It was just her typical, neurotic sign consuming her insides.
“You are still to make a good impression, don’t worry,” She commented, folding her slim arms.
“That’s not the point. It’s just – way too weird. Are we supposed to feel happy? Sad? Threatened?” June asked continuously. Nerves were wrangling her brain, just as usual. Only the frosty coldness of September could keep her sane. Blood was pumping voraciously through her constricted veins.
I’m finally at peace to know that somewhere, even in the virtual world, I’ll be wanted. And other aspiring authors should also feel wanted. There’s place for everyone. *warm hugs*