In Which I Challenge Myself

It was bound to happen I guess.

Truth be told, I’d expected it sooner, but now, as I sat there in that room, as alone a man could be, I could only wish that I had more time.

Time to say goodbye, time to right my wrongs, time to spend in any of the numberless places I’d rather be at this moment; away for my responsibilty; from my call.

But my time was up.

….......

...Don’t you want to know what happens? Don’t you want to know who this guys is, and what’s going on? Me too!  I have no idea what any of that means, but I’d really like to, which is why I think that the above paragraph, which I wrote only a minute ago, might be a good opening for a story.

It came easily; no pauses, no writer’s block. It’s times like that when I feel like a good writer. I feel like I could write actual fiction that people might actually want to read. I feel...at home. Like writing is who I am, and what I’m here for. It feels awesome...

And then I stop.

I run into those first questions, and I just don’t know the answers.

Who is this guy?

What was bound to happen?

What is this responsibility he talks about?

What is he waiting for by himself?

To whom did he want to say goodbye?

All of the questions I want the reader to ask, but if I can’t answer them, I’m kinda stuck. So, what now? Now, I suppose I have to make something up.

I hate that. I don’t want to make anything up! It should just come to me!

No, that’s not weird. I feel like my best work comes when I’m under absolutely no pressure, self inflicted or otherwise. I have tons of what I believe are good story ideas piled up in my head. Ideas that “just came to me”, just waiting for me to sit down and type them out. Except when I go to do that, I run into this very problem: details; questions. Even if I knew what genre this story would fall under, or the main point of the story, or a name for the hero, or his motivation, I would be every bit as stuck. I’m starting to realize that I’ll always have to make something up.

I wonder if those contrived ideas will always seem second rate to the inspired...

Probably.

Ooh. “The Inspired”? Possible Sci-fi villain anyone? No? Oh, ok. You’re right. Cheesy.

Anyway, I need to beat this. Writing fiction isn’t going to go away for me. I’ve been making up stories since before I could realize that was what I was doing. When I played with my Hot Wheels cars, they were characters, with strengths, weaknesses, and needs. The heroes never won in the first attempt, and the villains were never beyond redemption. Writing stories is what I was born to do.  I’m tired of wasting what I believe to be one of my greatest gifts just because I’m afraid of a few questions.

I think one of my biggest problems is that I never practice. I love every story too much to throw it away on something like that. I feel like my ideas deserve to be real stories, and the idea of pouring my heart and soul into something for nothing more than the experience is not at all appealing.

I need to get over it.

So...right. We have an opening. Let’s contrive away. It doesn’t have to be good, Andrew; this is practice.

Normally, I wouldn’t start with a vague opening and nothing else, (then again, normally I wouldn’t start at all.) but for the sake of this little practice round, we’ll call it a challenge.

Me: “I challenge me to write a short story from that paragraph, and post it on this blog by... by Tuesday!!”

Me: “Oh, yeah? Well challenge accepted. Oh yes I did.”

Me: “We’ll see, Me. We’ll see.”

...Is ‘me’ a funny word? I think it is. Just listen to it:

Me.......me........me.........ME.....me....Yeah it's a funny word.