How I Managed to Not Create One Story for the 8-Part Summer Fiction Series

Summer steadily seeped through grates we thought had been sealed. 2020 was inconceivable. 2021 has been the embodiment of the residual effects of the catastrophic 2020. There was such a push to get back to normal, we forgot the inevitability of progression. Every story has a beginning, middle, and end. When the beginning is so treacherous, we often are desperate for the end. An ending we hope against probability will be fairytale-like.

Am I just rambling for the sake of recording my jumbled thoughts for personal dissection when my mind is less foggy?

The short answer is, yes. I can admit that I was projecting in my quick introduction to you. Apologies. That was not my intention.

I had this notion that my summer was going to be epic. I was going to be thriving from sun-up to sundown. Writing the most prolific and innovative poems, short stories, and opinion-based pieces I have ever produced. Winning one or two of the first place prizes for the challenges issued on vocal.media. Dating actively and producing a connection real enough to delete the wretched dating apps. Acquiring a higher paying job that respects and challenges me. Crafting a toned stomach and a lifted butt.

Somehow, I thought the warmth from the sun would permanently magnetize all those desires to me. Science was never my strong suit. I could never apply the formula for acceleration to my real-life circumstances. How do I generate enough force to get the heavy mass that is my dreams to move forward and come to fruition?

The most poignant thoughts, themes, and statements parade around my mind at the most inopportune times. 3 this morning while my stomach and intestines were warring with one another and my limbs were frozen by the pain, my creativity started spewing words and images on my ceiling. My body had already rejected the energy it would take for me to get up and get a pen and paper, so I tossed my face into the pillow to silence my imagination. The insightful epiphanies were persistent though and began shouting, pulling my bonnet off and jumping around my head. I had been going through withdrawal for weeks without a formidable concept or angle. Then when I least desired it, my drug was trying to enter my veins and my body was refusing to appease my addiction. That’s how it goes though. Last night I had no choice, the arts did not prevail. Most of the threads to the masterpiece my ideas weaved were torn, falling into oblivion. I’m left with scraps, so that is what I will give to you.

That was my roundabout attempt at explaining how the flawed writing process I had when I was 16 is nearly impossible for me as a 26 year old woman.

I won’t hold you up much longer. I will get to the point.

How did I manage to not create a story for the 8-part summer short fiction story?

A challenge that included stories I love . Their Eyes Were Watching God, Charlotte’s Web, The Great Gatsby, and The Catcher in the Rye. Narratives that made me consider experiences that seemed foreign and discover perspectives that connect to the most introspective parts of myself. My mind toiled over how I could take the themes that inspired me and reinvent them.

I never set aside time though. I didn’t sit with those thoughts and cipher through them. I was afraid. Dialogue is not what I'm comfortable writing. I retreated when the ideas got jumbled. When it wasn't easy I distracted myself. I didn't try.

All of this could have summed up in 2 paragraphs. It's not that simple though. It took me almost 3 months to get to those 2 paragraphs. It is 3:18 a.m. and I am bringing it to a close. I am finishing something that was difficult for me. Something that made me feel uneasy and unsure. This topic has gotten all I have to give it. I am ready to move past the missed opportunities of the summer and fall into whatever concepts come my way.

That was corny. I am going to write a few short stories. Bye.