Let me begin by first apologizing for my absence. I haven’t put up a new post in nearly a week and haven’t put up a new chapter from either of my stories in several weeks. In part the Steam Summer Sale is guilty, so many new games to play. In part I am to blame, I’ve been spending a great deal of time brainstorming about my writing process (and playing new games) as well as the rest of my SciFi novel Child of the Seraphim. I’ve completed the short story I was writing, now titled Mercury, Sulfur, and Salt; however, I don’t think I want to publish the rest of the story on my blog, its only five chapters long. That being said I think I’m making some good headway on Child of the Seraphim, but it’s only been brainstorming, not much actual writing unfortunately. I have plans to write another short story about an Immortal man, and immortality’s effects on him, but that is still in the planning phase too.
With all this time recently spent brainstorming I’ve had a good deal of time to reflect on the reasons why I decided I would start writing.
It all began when I lost my job. I hated that job, it made me feel like a lousy person and sent me home stressed and irritable almost every day. I had not realized it, but that job had chained my muse to the floor of a small, damp, windowless box. She was shut in and kept away from me. When that job let me go, they also let my muse out of the box. It wasn’t immediate but slowly creativity crept back into my life. It started as the irresistible urge to take Nerf guns apart, slightly modify them then repaint them in specific styles (I have a steampunk pistol, a N7 pistol, a non-functioning Borderlands piece and then an unthemed / recolored machine gun type thing with plans recolor my Long Shot at some point too.)
Before long I was watching movies and reading books with increased frequency and regularly found myself thinking “Oh wouldn’t it be cool if they had pursued this angle?” or “They really could have done more with the characters in this story.” Then I read Wool, and I learned of how Hugh Howey and how he was a completely self published author. I thought to myself “Perhaps I should try this myself. I’ve already run several Dungeons and Dragons games (I created entire worlds for my friends to play in, gods, locations, people, local legends, and all that other good stuff), how much harder can a book be?”
Turns out it’s quite a bit harder.
I immediately started writing my first book, a SciFi novel with the working title Intentions, it was a story about aliens coming to Earth and showering us with wondrous technologies, but at a hidden cost. With nothing more than some extremely loose plotting, an interesting concept for the aliens, a few twists and turns, and my steely determination I charged at the book. Furiously typing out masses of words every day. When I got to forty thousand words I went back, and started reading what I had written. It was a horrible train wreck of an incomplete story. I immediately felt bad about it, stopped writing that story and I haven’t opened the file since. (Although I plan to look at it again one day, I really like some of the concepts I had laid out for the story.)
I stopped writing for a while, but I had really enjoyed writing the story, even if it was a horribly tangled mass of words. It was my mass of horribly tangled words. I tried to focus my creativity elsewhere but eventually I had to admit to myself that I daydream, that I imagine things cooler than they are, that I have worlds inside my head that I should put down in words. Shortly after that I had another idea strike me, and I had to write it.
That idea was Child of the Seraphim, I’m still working on the story right now. And I still wonder if I’ll ever finish it. While I may not know if I’ll ever actually complete it, I intend to. I’m confident I can, if I’ve finished writing a ten thousand word long short story, I can do a ninety thousand word long novel. It’ll just take a bit longer.
I want to craft a story that I want to read. I want to write a story that someone else can pick up and relate to, or be interested in, even if that’s only one person ever. I want that, and that is why I write.
Why do you write?