This morning I have written about weather, flooding, typographical choices, and ESPN’s continued decline in NBA coverage with the recent firing of veteran writer Zach Lowe. Nearly every word in those essays has been garbage.
Because the brain is like that some days. My brain at least. I’m sure your brain, too. Even though I know as a writer that if I keep writing what I feel is crap will eventually transform itself into something not-crap, I hesitate in continuing—because there’s already so much crap. How much crap can one writer crap out before they crap out or at least tap out?
Is it because I’ve been holding a headache inside my noggin for the past two days I can’t shake? With all the rain, and in turn mold spores releasing, from Hurricane Helene’s remnants, it feels like this headache is here to stay for at least another day. Endure, I must.
On days like this, I feel like I should turn my attention to writing fiction. The nonfiction feels forced. There’s a short story I alluded to on my random thoughts page I haven’t referenced on my main blog. It’s called “Dandelions.” I originally wrote this short story in 2009. The first draft began when my dad was admitted as a patient into the University of Virginia Medical Center. He had been diagnosed with acute myelogenous leukemia. It would prove fatal.
After he passed away a couple of months later, almost a month to the day before my wedding, I finished the story. It’s been sitting on a file drive for the past fifteen years. I always liked the story. It was, at the time, my way of finding solace or hope in my dad’s diagnosis. I didn’t realize then how drastic a turn my writing would take for a solid ten years after he died.
I moved completely away from writing fiction and into nonfiction. But even the nonfiction slowed. I did the things any normal human being would do instead. I focused on my full-time job. I was a writer in my position with the company. As a writer, it felt like I was “making it” in a way. I was, after all, making a living writing. Sure, it was brand-speak and corporate jargon, but it was an honest living that paid the bills.
But fiction writing has been tugging at my coattails for years. However, when I’d sit down to write a story, I felt helpless in front of the screen. I didn’t even know how to begin. I read through old stories I wrote more than a decade ago and couldn’t believe I’d even written those stories. They felt like they came from the mind of another human being altogether. So I’d close my laptop and tell myself I can’t write fiction anymore. I’ve lost it.
Every now and again I’d revisit fiction. I wrote character profiles, outlines for novels, scenes, a novella. Stories no one has ever seen in full but me. Never were they shared. It’s not because I view them as precious. Instead it was due to a lack of confidence. That all changed about a month ago when I went on a “screw this, I’m writing fiction” flurry.
The first short story I shared on my blog was “The New Tenant.” If you haven’t read it yet, click that fancy blue underlined link in the last sentence. It’ll take you 15-20 minutes to read. It’s not a true story (it’s fiction), but it is based on a true story about a small, destructive woodpecker (a downy) who did a number on the siding of my house last year.
I think it’s funny, but I’ll let you be the judge of that. If you enjoy “The New Tenant,” please share the url with a friend by text, email, or social media. As a writer, I’m always interested in bringing in new readers and I need your help to achieve this. Also, I’ll be sharing “Dandelions” soon once I wrap up the final edits. My dad’s birthday is in October so I feel the time is right for releasing it into the world after all these years. He never made it to 60, but had he lived, he would be turning 75.
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