As a writer, I frequently get ideas for stories when I cannot write them down. In the shower, grilling at the barbeque, as I fall asleep. I always tell myself to remember these ideas, and sometimes it works. More often than not, it doesn’t and the gem is forgotten by the time I reach paper or a keyboard.
The one thing that has stayed consistent however is the direction I feel myself being pulled in by the Universe. Increasingly, I find myself drawn toward short fiction, no matter how much I love novels. And I know what I want to write.
I want to write about women coming out. Lesbians and those who swear they aren’t. Woman being independent on their own, women in the wild woods together, depending on each other. I want to write about the secret life that a forest takes on when no one is there to see it. I want to write about the deep, mystical aspects of women’s lives. About the pulses that help shape us.
I want to write about the spirit world. Spirit dogs that refuse to leave their people when they pass on. The spirits of loved family members who watch over us and keep us safe. Guardian angels that are not related at all, but issued people as assignments and responsibilities.
But I also want to write about dragons and Elves and swords that have deep histories. I want to write about gemstones that madmen have killed for, quests that define characters that are not expected to win the day.
I want to write about women drawn together by forces they don’t understand. Powerful women, damaged, fractured women that need love. women who trek across countries seeking answers and find love along the way.
I want to write all of it.
I want to share it with those who understand these things.
Some of it I have written. Some of these tales are still being written, some are ignored and neglected. Some are still looking for a published home.
I’ve done a lot of thinking about a writing career over the years.
At one time I thought perhaps the freelance route was for me.
But it seemed too dry to hold my passion for long.
Looking back, I have a writing career, albeit a small one. I have a few articles under my belt, a novel, a series of children’s stories and three or four published short stories out there somewhere.
So lately my thoughts have turned to a collection of short fiction.
I, of course, am an impatient writer. I want a drawer full of short stories, much like Ray Bradbury and Stephen King claimed to have had.
But when they were at their prime is not the writer’s world of today.
Today, it’s dog eat dog, and everyone is a writer with the advent of self-publishing. Now that so many are writing, how do we make our individual voice rise above the din of all the other writers doing the same thing?
Persistence, a writer friend told me.
I watched a movie recently that I cannot get out of my mind. Not because the actresses were gorgeous, which they were. Not because one of the characters was straight at the beginning of the film, but because the story was honest, and so common.
A straight woman and lesbian develop an attraction and the straight woman gives up everything for her lover.
Pretty simple story, right? But it was done so well, acted so exquisitely, written so brutally honest … that particular hour and a bit might never leave my writer’s brain.
And that’s how I want my work to be perceived in time.
Only I want that to hurry up and happen now. I don’t want to have to die before anyone realizes I might have been pretty good at this writing thing.
But I suppose the only way for that to happen is for me to keep my butt in this chair and write.
Finish the fantasy story about the lesbian half-elf, and put it out there to see if they love it like I do.
Finish the story about the woman disfigured by hatred, but redeemed by love.
Finish the story about two women such polar opposites who share a ghost between them and eventually fall in love, in spite of the shared ghost.
Then, find my readers, my people who will nod as they read and know I told their stories.
I know they must be out there somewhere...
