Irene Smith

I have been writing for–oh hell, nearly forty years. I wrote my first book, a horrible mish-mash of The Wizard of Oz, Alice in Wonderland, and Doctor Doolittle when I was 11 years old. It was really bad, but the way, in case you are curious. Not only did I steal every plot twist and turn from my favorite books, I included every one of my friends as characters.

For most of those forty years, I believed that writing fiction was something that had to be inspired. By what? Who knows. I guess I imagined some schizophrenic muse residing somewhere in my brain. Once in a whle she would throw me a bone and I would write a story. Mostly I wrote parts of stories that had beginnings and no ends but that’s beside the point.

When I write non-fiction, articles or documentation, I have no problems. No blocks have ever existed for me with non-fiction. There are times, in fact, when it seems like cheating. I don’t need to be inspired. The words just appear on the page. Sometimes it feels as though someone else is dong the work and I’m just getting it all down.

Fiction is hard. I write, I re-write, and I question every word. At least, I always did. I worry about writing clichéd stories. I want every story to be perfect and wonderful and–you get the idea. Usually about halfway through I begin to hate the story and, more times than not, I end up throwing it away. For every story I have completed, there are at least five more that will never see the light of day.

Today I decided to stop trying to write perfect, unique, absolutely fascinating stories. From now on, I’m going to write stories that are fun to write whether they are “wonderful” and “perfect” or not.

That’s not as easy as it sounds but I wrote a story–a complete story–today in about three hours. It’s not long (only 1,970 words) but it is complete. It’s not perfect. It’s not totally original, but it’s done.

If you want to read it, go here… Of Smoke and Mirrors

Does this mean I’m going to become the prolific, successful story teller that I’ve been trying to become for the past forty years? Probably not. Yet I feel as though I’ve taken a huge step forward today. I’ve stopped believing in writer’s block. I’ve stopped believing that I need to be inspired to write, and–this is the best part–I wrote a complete story because I decided that was what I was going to do. **Pats self on back.** That’s a good start.