Keep Writing

When asked this, my first answer is “because I can”, which usually ends the conversation but it’s an escape, not an answer, I’ll admit to that.

The story takes place in Salem, MA, during the Witch Trials. This is some dialogue I just wrote today, so likely not final. It is a 100% fictional inquisition by the non-fictional Reverend Parris of Salem Village.

Tuesday.

I’m thinking about writing an 18+ superhero story about a young adult superhero who is 21 to 23 at the start of the story. He comes from a millionaire or billionaire family. His parents are alive, his siblings are alive, but the main character’s significant other, who also comes from a wealthy family, is murdered. That motivates my character to become a superhero. His two best friends, a 24 to 26 year old man and a 24 to 26 year old woman, come from wealthy families too, and they help him with superhero stuff.

I’m writing a story about a masked vigilante. This woman is a 21-year-old stripper who’s dating a 31-year-old man. She eventually gets powers through an accident, and her boyfriend is murdered. She was originally going to kill the killer but decided to let the police arrest him after she beat him up.

I’m writing a story about a 21-year-old man dating a 31-year-old woman whose 35-year-old ex-boyfriend was abusive. Her ex brutally tortures, rapes and kills her new boyfriend, and she kills him out of revenge.

Fleeting feelings of a canvas so full of color and so full of life being drained away. Its source, the artist who once called that canvas their home. Dried paint brushes dot the easel not used for some time, not because of a lack of an artist who has a desire to create, but rather, a lack of continued connection to the once bright light of creativity. Those colors once carefully planned are now being replaced with the nothingness that the artist needs to exchange in order to continue coloring their own life. A temporary measure, one with a time limit, where once exhausted - leads to a life with a lack of the thing that once brought joy. This crutch on its last legs, waiting for the revival and return of the confidence of an artist inspired with new creativity. To add color back and exchange their dull, blunted, sense of self into a vibrant new creation. To once again build back up a new canvas - saving it to be a crutch for their future downfall. Cyclical in nature, the ebb and flow of creativity and complacency constantly at odds - fighting for absolute control, neither side giving up in its pursuit of dominance. Such is the life of one who inevitably reaches the end of their ability to push the limits of what they once thought was an endless pit of new ideas and combinations. Such is the life of our artist working in that dark pit, breaking new ground in search of new caverns to tap into and aid with a wealth of new colors. New colors they never thought possible to see, new colors that fill up their new sense of self, and finally - new colors that brings back the joy they once felt.

I’m writing an 18+ superhero story. My main character is a young man/woman (I don’t know their gender yet). They are a stripper and get powers from overdosing on a street drug that gives you superpowers. After that, their 31-year-old boyfriend dies (he’s older than my main character). My character decides to find his killer and originally plans to kill them but chooses justice over revenge and hands them over to the police, and then they decide to become a superhero vigilante.

I’m writing an R-rated superhero story. My main character gets his powers from chemicals. His boyfriend, who’s older than him (maybe 6-14 years older), is murdered, and he brings his killers to justice. My main character is bisexual, and most of his love interests are 6 to 14 years older than him—maybe some even older. His best friends are in their 20s and slightly older than him too.

I’m very slowly coming back around to having a desire to write more. Procrastination gets the best of me at times, my ADHD other times, and my Depression has its moments. But I keep a desire to write a few stories of my own nevertheless.

@keepwriting

The light began as a pinprick through the blackout curtains that had been forced over me. Like a lead blanket being gradually removed, the weight holding me down began to lift. The light, at first far and dim, became closer and more brilliant. I became aware of the dryness in my mouth, and how hard it was to breathe and to swallow. The light had now completely surrounded me, a cold, white light. I began to shiver. I could smell the smell of chemicals and medicine, and yes, the smell of blood, though it was now much more subdued. There was also the smell of a man. It was a familiar smell, I recognized it, but couldn’t place where I knew it from. There were sounds, though unintelligible.

I was once a warrior, red in tooth and in claw. I was once fearless. The pounding of our relentless feet against our foes still resonates with me. I still remember the scent of blood in the air, I yearn for it and despise it as a sailor yearns for and despises the sea. I remember the baying of the pack. My pack. Us. I remember the fell voices of my comrades, teeth bared. I remember the man’s gun, though I don’t understand it. The boar would always die upon hearing that terrible roar and smelling that foul scent. Sometimes with a cry, sometimes without. But we knew that when the gun again fell silent, the day’s wonderful and terrible battle would be over.

The writer is not the god of their world. At least, I am not. The gods write themselves, and I only keep the record.

What keeps you tapping keys at 2 am when doubt creeps in, when the coffee’s cold and the page is blank; what spark won’t let you let go?

From what I could see, there is no rules about that. I hope it is allowed. But, perhaps, to know each other or just your work. We could share a tiny bit of something that we are working on.

I’m always fascinated by the little quirks that keep us tapping away at the keyboard or paper. For me, simple: A huge glass of water (sometimes, water is not inside.... dont know what happened.... ) 🤭 . And I look at my laptop for what... 10,20 mins.. like zoning out, thinking... what am I doing now?

What is, for you, creativity?

Your support—comments, tips, shares—helps me keep telling the truth and staying alive while doing it. Thank you for being here. Ko-fi

Had a dream last night where I was on a road-trip and ended up randomly dropping into an alternate dimension, this short story is pretty much the backstory for how that dimension diverges from our own and is about 1/3 straight dream, 1/3 the random oddly detailed lore dump my brain gave me when I woke up (anyone elses brain do that?) and 1/3 creative writing to fill in the gaps. I'm not even am ameteur but I hope you guys find it interesting. .-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sorry if this isn't relevant here but it's the only place I could thing of posting this

I find myself often putting small details into my stories that come straight from my life experience: a car model, a location, a reference to a book or a movie... small details that make the story feel more connected and help me dive into it.

I was thinking about how to bring a bit of life into this community, and I was thinking that a weekly writing competition would be great. Perhaps instead of just short stories, we could include a further focus on poetry, short essays, and of course still including short stories. I think the prompts could be less restrictive than those on r/writingprompts over on Reddit and similar communities; instead they could be things like "Gaza-Israeli conflict", opening the floor to poetry, essays, commentaries, or short stories. Would love to see your prompt suggestions.

My September Month’s Medium Stat: Revealing All Ins & Outs and My 5 Key Takeaways — Let’s Learn the Secret!

In bed? Cafe? At a desk? Do you bring snacks? Write caffeinated? I'll usually have a coffee and write for an hour before I get too jittery and I'll do some physical exercise. It's an okay schedule considering that I'm still in school.