I find it difficult to write fiction. I want to. I really do. I have a few children’s stories started. Only one of them is complete but then I started it at least 16 years ago. If all of my stories take that long I will never finish more than 2 or 3 at best. The one that is finished is the first book I ever started. I guess maybe there is something golden in that. I often thought if I could finish it that something would release like a flood gate that would open my mind to the ability of writing more books. That doesn’t seem to be the case.
This may be the reason I am drawn to blogging. It was a natural transition from journaling to blogging for me. I wrote my random thoughts, topics that interested me, places I visited or things that my kids and I experienced. It was more about sharing what had happened than it was creating a story. More than once I thought I would like to be one of those columnist that responds to readers questions. Giving advice or helping them decipher something that was weighing on them. Between telling the truth and helping someone find that light bulb moment I would somehow feel a sense of fulfillment.
And yet, time and time again I find myself thinking of books that I would like to write. One or two would be based on or completely the truth as they would come from my life journey. Their soul purpose being to help others who are living or have lived through something similar. Many other ideas jump around in my brain. A thought here and there, late at night or when I am out walking. An idea for a children’s book, a catchy title, or a glimpse, a small concept that I think would make the start for story. And that is where it ends. I jot the book title or idea down in a sticky note on my phone only to pull it up later and wonder where I would go with it. Nothing comes…..
You know what I think I need? Time. Devoted time with no distractions and only a laptop, notepad, pen, and nature. I envision a cabin in the woods with endless trails. Maybe a small bubbling creek that ripples over small, medium and large rocks a short jaunt from the cabin. Towering trees to the north and the east with the sun shining down on me from the south and the west. Mountains off in the distance standing tall like friendly giants beckoning me to come and explore. Just outside the cabin door there are wild flowers and tall grasses that wave gently in the cool breeze. I can almost hear the call of the whippoorwills as they hide themselves in the trees just out of sight. If I were there my thoughts would flow freely. My writing would be uninhibited. Nothing would stop me. Every distraction would be but a new idea keeping my fingers moving and the words adding up on the page.
Doesn’t that sound lovely?! I need to write. The truth may come easier at first but in time I think I will be able to conjure up some really great lies, er, I mean fiction if I just keep trying.