late sunday afternoon, after spending the entire morning in my pj's on my couch, i quickly cleaned up and headed off for some afternoon writing. for some reason i felt inspired to pick up my story and work on it a bit. i hadn't touched it in two years. the stack of papers have dutifully been collecting dust patiently waiting for me to bring them to life.
i found a quiet booth at a noisy establishment, ordered a medium sized beer, turned to a blank page in my notebook, placed a fresh stack of sticky notes on the table, lined up multiple colored pens, and unclipped my dusty stack of text. step one: read through it.
like any good reader i started with page one. as i made my way to the bottom of the first single-spaced, typed page of text, i remembered why i had put it down in the first place. it is hard to read. is it hard to read because it is my story? is it hard to read because the words punch you in the gut and take your breath away? is it hard to read because i am a terrible writer and it doesn't make sense?
i find it hard to read because it brings me back to a day that i wish had never happened. every emotion i felt that particular day came rushing back. emotions that i didn't have and i think i should've, beg to be answered. i think it is actually the latter that troubles me more.
i didn't get much past the first page. i did come up with a new angle on how to present my story, but reading it now seems flimsy. i should stick with the first thought because it is like a punch in the gut. having a strong opening that intrigues you to read more is a must.
like my actual life, my story is a work in progress. a rough draft. just thoughts to paper. in time i may find a compelling way to share it? the draft will become a final version, the thoughts will create a movie in your head, and the cover can close for me.
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