Revels in the Dark

I like writing. That's really what it boils down to. Stringing together words for the sake of the sound they make together, for the life they give me in their creation, and for the expression I would otherwise be denied. So I spend a good deal of my time at my keyboard. I work on short stories, poems, novels: whatever you can imagine, I've at least fiddled with it. But I have a problem with finishing things. I'll crunch my way half way or three quarters through a short story only to abandon it. There are about twenty fragments and twice as many ideas sitting around on my hard drive, languishing.

Lately, I've been considering how to fix this.

My problem is that I'm too critical. I want to much from myself and from my work. I want to be Charles Dickens, Stephen King, Cormac McCarthy, and Neil Gaiman all at once, and when I can't live up to what I expect from myself and my work I lose steam and let it drop. I'm stealing all the joy from the process. I've lost my inner child.

I also have a rule about my work: don't show it off before its finished, or at least before its gotten into a second or third draft. Its like peeking at a person before they've got their cloths on for the day. I would no more let you look at one of my stories before its finished than I would take one of my children out in public naked. I don't have any children, but you get the point.

The first joy in writing comes from the words themselves, the organizing of them, the sound and the texture of them. But you've only had half the fun if things stop there. The other half is sharing your words with others, hoping that maybe they'll enjoy them as much as you have. I haven't been sharing my words. I want to share my words.

So I'm going to revel. I'm going to dance, laughing, with words under a starlit sky. Whatever whim or fancy strikes me, I will pursue. And I'm not going to worry about how good it is or how many people will read it. There is a time and a place for that. But all work and no play will make Derek into an ax murderer.

Won't you join me? I hope you have as much fun reading my words as I will setting them down. And if the mood strikes you, set your pen to paper and let go. Now come and take my hand. The night is young and the stars are bright.