Creation
a short story by Dot
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You're thinking about this or that when the idea seizes you and will not let go. It takes all of your willpower to keep your mind from fast-fowarding as you sit at a desk and take out the appropriate tools.
As you begin, it is as if a dam is opened. Colors, sounds, textures, smells, tastes, and words flood your mind. You can hardly keep up even though you're going as fast as you can. You are barely aware of the passing of time as you proceed.
You write like one possessed. Word after word tumbles forth in a rush. It is as if you are channeling a greater power. Slowly, the story takes form, an army of black invading the paper. You are Michelangelo coaxing a statue out of a block of clay. Da Vinci painting the enigmatic smile upon Mona Lisa. Beethoven scribbling a Symphony in the light spring rain of a pristine countryside.
But then, as abrubptly as the force had occupied you, it is gone. The empty, white space taunts you mercilessly as you stare upon it. You try to continue, but even adding or changing one word feels like pure torture. The more you attempt to think about it, the harder it becomes to be productive. In short, you are stuck.
Reluctantly, you put the story down and move onto other things. But time and time again you come back to your unfinished work. Now, progress slows to a glacial pace. You feel as if you are building a cave of stalagmites and stalactites drop by agonizingly slow drop. At one point, you are frustrated to the point of wanting to give up. You keep persisting, though, out of stubbornness and fondness. This story has become like a child for you, and no child, however obnoxious, ever ceases to be one's flesh and blood.
You come to a place where you feel the story ends. The curtain falls upon the last act. You read through it again, not just to check for any thoughless errors, but to savor the feeling of becoming--if only for a fleeting moment--the story. You leave a few notes to the reader, some random ramblings that you feel are appropriate.
Now, the big moment arrives. It is time for someone else to read your story. You do so timidly, carefully. You are proud of your story, but you are unsure of how others will react. In that instant when a person reads your work, you are thrown into a helpless vulnerability. You share a piece of your soul. Sometimes, this is well received. Other times, this is not. In the former case, you keep yourself from getting too excited; in the latter, you swallow your pride and accept the suggestions humbly. You always seek multiple opinions, because not everyone thinks the same way.
You fine tune your story the way a jewler might re-shape a precious gem. It's almost painful for you to do so, but you bite your lip and press on. Just as gold must be melted in the furnace again and again, so you subject your story to the harsh fires of criticism.
At long last, you are completely satisfied. You store the finished work where you can easily access it again, should you change your mind later. You lean back into your seat and begin to think randomly again, knowing that it will only be a matter of time before another idea leaps into your consciousness, thus beginning the cycle again.
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Another experimental piece. Personally, I've never liked the second person narrative that much, but I thought it was appropriate for the subject matter.
Yes, this is largely autobiographical, although I don't get so deeply involved in _every_ single story that I write. IMHO, though, the better ones are the ones that I really put myself into.
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-"Dot"
Dot-Chan on #fanfic at bachman.newberry.edu (FFIRC Chatroom)
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--Writer of Unnecessarily Long Author's Notes and Bad Spamfics. ^^;
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