I want to tell you a story.
This past weekend, my wife found several misplaced items around the house. A television remote, one of my brown dress shoes, my bifocals. The latter two items had been missing for over a month. For my part, I found a portable recorder I hadn't seen since last August.
Funny how things all fell into place, and we found not one, but four missing items in a two-day span.
I haven't written a word of fiction in nearly two years. For a decade or more, short story writing took up all my spare time. I loved the entire process. But somewhere along the line, it became more and more like work. I dreaded doing it. I tried too hard to be something I wasn't and then let self-doubt poison my attitude. I resented certain things that were out of my control.
I stopped writing entirely.
During this period of time, I did a lot of reading.
I also line-edited my next short story collection. These are all stories that have been previously published, but they all benefited from another read-through. I made edits, revisions, and corrections to the entire manuscript.
I am proud of it and excited to publish it. This will happen very soon.
During this editing process, I still didn't feel any inclination to write anything new.
Then, about two months ago, some interesting things started to happen. I had a series of vivid dreams that lingered in my memory long after waking. I typed random phrases that popped into my head into my note-taking app on my phone. I jotted down one of my dreams in a notebook. I woke up one night and wrote down an idea for a poem.
I still didn't want to write, but I had started telling myself stories.
A month ago, I ran into a friend who is a professional photographer. Over two cups of coffee--and two hours and forty-five minutes!--we discussed the similarities and differences between photography and writing. We talked about contests and awards, and critics and editors. We talked about the difference between work and "just for fun". I confronted some of my insecurities and admitted holding grudges.
Afterward, the strangest thing happened: I went home and wrote a poem. I also wrote two pages of a new story, and sketched out an idea for a second new story.
A few days later, to get back into practice, I resurrected an old trunk story, and polished it up. I didn't have to think too hard. I just revised, edited, and corrected. No new content. No first draft.
Several days after that, I saw a submission call that gave me an opportunity to use a story premise I'd had rattling around in my brain for the last year or so. And the theme of the anthology allowed me avoid creating entirely new content. Authors were invited to re-imagine a classic. Once again, I'd avoided writing something entirely new. I took an old story and changed it, shortened it, and gave it a twisted new ending.
I wasn't consciously aware of it, but I was backing, step by step, into the haunted forest I'd so scrupulously avoided for so long.
A week ago, I completed the story I'd begun that night after coffee. It took me two days, which for me, is fast.
After completing that story, I wrote another.
After that, I wrote another.
Three new stories in less than a week. Each, in my opinion, turned out better than the last.
All told, in the last thirty days, I wrote three new short stories, a new/old retelling of a Jack London classic, a new poem, and revised an old favorite. I have submitted them all to various publishers. Fingers crossed, right?
I didn't want to say anything at first. I didn't want to jinx it. I wanted to be sure.
It didn't happen overnight. The pieces fell into place incrementally, like a puzzle that I didn't even know I was putting back together.
I'd like to make it official: after nearly two years on hiatus, I am actively writing short stories again.
The best part? I'm having fun doing it.
