I used to write fiction, and love it. I remember sitting down one day my junior year in high school, a little angry; the window and my mind open, I wrote for three solid hours and entered a state of flow, without the help of caffeine or the hindrance of alcohol.
It occurred to me the other day that there are several reasons that I stopped. First of all, the same reason I stopped thinking and talking in metaphors about this time last year: when I enter into a relationship, or am trying to enter into a relationship, I wring every last drop of my creative energies into that. It’s exhausting, but I used to think it was the best thing to do (more on that in a few days, maybe). Secondly, while the aforementioned piece I wrote got great reviews from the guys I know, the reactions of the women I’ve dated have either said nothing or told me outright it wasn’t good in the slightest. Granted, the genre was dystopic cyberpunk on the order of (in imitation of) Gibson, but nevertheless, I got discouraged.
Then a few days ago it hit me: why should I wait for a woman to like it? The answer from my past would be that, when you pour all your energy into a relationship with a person, then that person has more weight with which to encourage—or discourage. But this is ridiculous. I don’t need anyone to validate my writing, and shouldn’t. So! I’m going to try my hand at it at some point in the future, and in the meantime, when I root around in my computer (… pun intended) and find that little snippet, I’ll post it. I’ll do my best to keep from revising it this go-round.
