The actual fabric and worth of a story lie in how it's told -- the execution. If not performed correctly, you will not be believed, and the reader will not continue to read.
Writing is an isolating job by its very nature. I tend to think of it as a long spell in solitary, with no time off for good behavior. And for me, solitary could lead to a even more serious problem, especially when I go crawling around inside my own brain. But lately, I seem to be the master of excuses. I come up with more reasons why I should be doing something else, instead of writing. I walk around all day long with these grand words so carefully constructed inside my head, but then I let some diversion take over and writing is pushed to the back of the line.
One of my biggest excuses is I don't think I really have the talent, but I've always wanted to write, and other people have always encouraged me to write. One of my favorite quotes is, “never give up on anything that you can’t go a day without thinking about.” But when I write, it tends to stir around something inside of me, that leaves me feeling with the need to escape. And if I can’t escape, the thoughts of killing others or myself consumes my every thought until I am forced to react on those thoughts.
There has always been this fight inside of me trying to decide if I should do what others expect of me, or doing the type of things that take me out at 2 in the morning. I feel like every time I get things under control, the world comes back around and tackles me to the ground. As much understanding as I have of what to do and what not to do when this feeling occurs, it still feels more natural if I was out trying to rob an armor truck.
I guess I’m just at a point in my life, that it has begun to sink in that there is a last time for everything. So, I’ve been scramble to make sure I get done a few last things before my life is over. It has kept me up many nights, thinking about all the last times that have already passed in my life. There has been so many little moments, barriers crossed, that has passed before my eyes that I didn’t realize, that it was the last time. I don’t want that to happen to my writing. I want to continue to write, even if others tell me my writing serves no purpose, and I’m not really that talented. I just don’t want this to be my last time.
The others are still safely locked away on the other side, but as I stand there alone outside the narrow window, I realize I want them to escape.