Monday, May 20, 2013

A Writer Writes

A writer writes. Pretty simple, right? If you write, you are a writer, if you don't, you're not.

I'm bad at writing. I don't mean my writing is terrible to read,(sometimes it is), or that I'm awful at the craft of writing (such as grammar, structure, voice, style, etc.). I mean that I am bad at actually writing things. I'm terrible at putting pen to paper or words on the screen.

Free time is my enemy. I long for it and then have no idea what to do when I have it. I think about everything I could do, all the possibilities and they overwhelm me to the point where I sit on the couch, just thinking. I psyche myself out. I ask myself: Which project do I work on? What should I do? Edit a novel that may never be good enough? Start a new story or continue one that I'll never get around to finishing? A blog post that will be read by few?

I plan on writing. All through the week, I tell myself, this time, this weekend, I'm going to write for four hours, or 10,000 words, edit this many pages, do this and that, not to mention the other thing. What happens to these plans come Saturday morning? They fade away like fog on a summer day. I stare at my screen, lacking motivation to make a decision and click on something. Weak, pathetic. It's silly and stupid, childish even.

My plans may have been overblown. I overestimated my willpower, my drive. I need to set a limit, time or words to write, a goal for Saturday and Sunday. An easy goal that I can succeed at time and time again, giving me confidence until it's routine. Then I can increase the goal.

One hour of writing on the weekend. Sixty minutes, nonstop, either editing or writing. I will set a timer and until that timer goes off, I can do nothing but edit or write. No internet surfing, no video-game playing or tv watching. Nothing but writing. A writer writes. Lately, I haven't been much of a writer, but I want to change that.

A writer writes. To be honest, at least for myself, I would like to change that saying. A writer writes regularly. If you jot down one story three years ago and haven't written since, you're not a writer, in my mind. But if you jot down even just one sentence a week? You're a writer. I want to be a writer.

60 minutes over the weekend. Easy, right? Pathetic, really. I know it's not much but it's a start, and starting is the hardest part of any project. I need to write first and put my thoughts on hold, my fears of never being published, being good enough, feelings that what I'm doing is ultimately pointless...Those are lies told by fear, excuses not to do something I enjoy. It's silly to excuse myself from doing something I enjoy. I need to get over it.

It's like running or going to the gym. I always feel good afterwards. It's getting the motivation to do it in the first place, to get your butt of the couch and act. That's the hard part.

I've made excuses long enough. Time to start writing.

Tuesday, May 7, 2013

It Walked Inside the Spaceship

(A flash fiction writing challenge taken from TerribleMinds Flash Fiction Friday Challenge )



It walked inside the spaceship and then it sat down. Without so much as a "Hello," or a "how do you do?" Whatever it was, Hans thought to himself, it was rude. Especially considering they were traveling at lightspeed. Incredibly rude. And impossible. Who or what did this thing think it was, coming onto his ship without a word in the middle of traveling through space?


"Hey," Hans said, standing up from the command chair, gesturing with his high-tech laser gun. He really liked that gun, all silver and shiny. Impressive, it was definitely the kind of gun a ship captain would have. He pointed the gun at It. "Who are you?" Hans asked. "Err, what are you?"


It did not reply. It stared at him. Or he thought It did. It didn't have a face, or any discernible features. It was white, and man-shaped. 


Hans glanced at his crew. They sat at their posts, all facing It, confused and worried expressions on their faces. Hans thought he should probably be worried too. Something had entered the spaceship while it traveled at a speed faster than could really be comprehended. That sounded bad. Impossible even. Things that could do the impossible should be feared, he thought.


But he was too damn mad. If It was so powerful and amazing, the least It could have done was ask before It strolled in, or at least, let them know It was coming. And after strolling onto his ship without a care? It had sat down. Like an unwelcome relative to dinner. 


"Hey," Hans said, louder. "Asshole, what the fuck are you doing on my spaceship?" He made sure the deadly end of the gun pointed at It. That would scare it. Definitely.


It turned It's head ever-so-slightly. 


The gun melted in Hans' hands. He threw it down with a yelp. 


"Now that's just plain rude!" He shouted, pointing an accusing finger, jabbing it in It's direction. "You come onto my ship, sit down and melt my gun? What is this universe coming to? Why, in my day, if an alien came onto your ship, they were goddamned polite about it! Haven't you any common decency?" 


"Captain..." Talwart said, wiping nervous sweat from his brow. He was always sweating, a common problem among Bigfeet. Everyone had always thought Big Foot a myth and then after space travel, they found out he was just an alien stuck on earth. "Captain, maybe you should be a little...nicer to It?" 


"Nicer?" Hans growled, glaring. "It has the audacity to-"


ENOUGH. 


The voice exploded in Hans' head, eliminating every thought. Silence came after. A look at his crewmates told him they had heard as well. Their mouths had dropped and they stared at It. 


Hans grumbled. "Now It interrupts me in the middle of speaking...Aliens ain't got no manners..." he muttered to himself. 


I AM NOT AN ALIEN. I AM A GOD.


"...Could've told me that before you melted my goddamn gun..." Hans kept on, under his breath, looking down at the melted pool on the floor. 


THE GUN, NOT IMPORTANT. YOUR FEELINGS, NOT IMPORTANT.


"Maybe not important to you..." 


SHUT UP. JUST SHUT YOUR MOUTH.


Hans opened his mouth to say that that was no way to speak to a captain on his own ship, when he found no noise would come out. 


LISTEN. 


It stood, raising what could be called hands. 


LISTEN TO THE END OF THE UNIVERSE. 


Whiteness enfolded them. They saw nothing but white. 


LISTEN AND KNOW, YOU ARE THE ONLY ONES WHO CAN STOP IT.


The white faded, leaving everyone gasping for breath, eyes wide. Hans staggered to his feet. 


"You could have warned us before...all that...Would have been the polite thing to do..." He stammered, leaning against the wall. 


It shook It's head. 


I DO NOT LIKE YOUR ODDS. BUT I DID NOT CHOOSE...ENOUGH. LISTEN, IF YOU WISH TO SAVE EVERYTHING. IGNORE, AND EVERYTHING ENDS. 


It waited, looking at them all. 


Hans stood straight, puffing out his chest. "Well, get on with it then. We're waiting."


It sighed.