Just Another Monstrous Woman

I started this short story a year ago. For a different challenge. And was inspired by the story of Medea. And there really wasn’t anything wrong with it, I really loved writing it until I started to second guess myself. I’ve included what I had written below, as well as my thoughts about why it never fully got finished.

Everyone always tells my story wrong. Even that fool Euripides couldn't get it right... and he name his play after me. But I suppose he was also a man. And they solemnly tell a women’s story correctly.

I was born in a place outside of Greece. In Colchis. I can’t remember my mothers name, but my father… he was Aeetes. A king and I a princess. Now I am but another shade wondering the fields. Left to wonder evermore, or to go back to life. The afterlife is kind in the regard. You have all the time in the world to make the next choice. In life… some choices must be made in seconds. Perhaps if I’d had more time I would have made mine differently. But I believe that life is more than dark and light. And it’s in the darkness that we learn the most about ourselves.

It was true that I was a priestess of Hecate. That I was a sorceress. Whom helped Jason win the Golden Fleece. It is true that I sailed away with him and later married him. And it is true that I killed our sons and left him. What isn’t true, is that I did it all out of love to him or out of revenge to him. Love and revenge are too simple to explain it all. I was not the scorned women or the love sickened Foreign Princess. I was a women, and a survivor. And before I go on to the next life, I intend to settle a few facts about the end of my marriage.

Jason had never loved me. Nor I him. And yet he found a way to hold on to me for ten years after our escape from my farther. I’d traded one prison for another. Both gilded cages filled with deceptive luxury.

Even just reading back what I have gives me this weird feeling. I see my style in the words. Can hear the tone I was going for in Medea’s character. And yet even when I review it the story stops there. It’s like my thoughts weren’t fully there or the story was never fully explored and appreciated.

With most of my writing, I have a fatal flaw (since it was a Greek hero story I might as well take from the theory too). I tend to write out a poem or short story in one sitting. And if I can’t finish it in one setting then I tend to get annoyed and toss it out. Which is very silly. I’ve countless novel ideas that I’ve been able to return to and I use to write essays in university. Which requires multiple sessions, drafts and planning. But when it comes to creating, I get this bug and I have to sit down and pound it all out in one go. Like if I don't finish it right away, I'll never have time to or I won't ever get the chance to create it again.

For the most part I don’t mind this. I realize if I could buckle down and pace myself, maybe I’d get more success in being a writer, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. So when the thoughts stopped flowing and I started to doubt myself I quit writing the story. I actually quit vocal for a solid six months.

I’ve always wanted to write. And I know it takes a lot of hard work to be successful. There’s a lot of time, consistency and dedication that goes into writing. You have to face rejection, you have to pour money in that you may never see back, and you have to accept that not everything you write is going to have this great responds. And honestly most of what you write ends up lost. Writing is become even harder to maintain with the ever present threat of AI, politics, and the general darkness that's growing in the world. There's both rules and no rules when it comes to writing, and it's never the same for each person. But the constant thing you always hear about any craft or skill is that you have to grind for it. As someone whose always seen my writing as art, and as a part of my soul, it's hard to quantify my work or even try and force it. I have so much trouble following the rules and applying myself fully to the craft. Both because I have a lot of self doubt to work through, and because I never want my writing to become about the money or popularity.

Let’s tackle the first one shall we? The self doubt. It hits all of us at one point in time. What if I’m not good enough? What if no one likes it? What if it doesn’t make sense? Or someone finds a spelling mistake and now the whole piece is ruined? What if someone hates how I twisted the myth and calls me stupid? All of these thoughts were going through my head when I stopped writing this one. I also asked myself what was the point? I’d never won a challenge before. I wasn’t a top writer and I had no idea if I was ever going to publish something big. I got so angry at myself because I thought I’d lied. I thought I’d told myself this big story about how I was a good writer and I wasn’t seeing any results. Sure my friends were giving me validation. My family was telling me to go after my dreams. But I just couldn’t see it any more. I was ready to toss in the towel and say writing was a little side hobby, and yeah I wrote little stories and lived in my own head, but I was not going to be a creative writer. Well I’d mastered how to write for university and academically speaking, it was becoming obvious that I was no match for creativity. I was ordinary.

The thought of being ordinary and having nothing special to offer. Nothing new to explore completely shattered my confidence, even posting poetry feel like I was straining. I got scared to even allow myself to write. Not even as a hobby and not even for myself. At first it wasn’t that big of a deal. I just shrugged my shoulders and said, “at least I tried” But over time. I found I was sad. My ideas had no where to go and my feelings felt pent up. I started to feel like I was losing my voice even in every day life. I didn’t feel smart anymore. I didn’t feel creative or passionate. I just felt empty. Like I was destined to spiral in the same circles over and over again. When the suicide ideation flared up again, I grabbed the pen again.

At first, it was just to journal how I was feeling. Then it was to write silly fan fiction again. A few months in to writing again I was carrying around a notebook to jot down my little free verse poems. The self doubt wasn’t gone but I felt like I was finding myself again. I still asked myself if I should bother returning to sharing my writing. But I really wanted to. Suddenly I didn’t care if no one liked it. I didn’t care if I was writing on sites that felt like I was going no where. Or if I did write a novel and get rejected. It wasn’t about anyone else anymore. It was about me and my soul. Because without writing, a huge part of my creativity dried up and I felt increasingly small. But I needed it. My writing may never be for everyone, but it was for me.

Now I know that sounds silly when I’m posting again, and submitting to challenges. But hear me out. If you’ve made it this far in my ramblings, you can make it a little further. I promise. I started posting again because I wanted to share. Not because I thought I could make a few extra bucks. Yes the money would be nice. Unfortunately living is a thing in this economy, and if I’m going to out in a bunch of effort. The it’s a small thing to keep posting on a form that may give me a return to that work. The difference with it now, for me, is if it doesn’t happen, I’m not devastated. I don’t have the sudden ego failure that it didn’t work out. Because I did it for me. Each time I post, or I write. I get better. I find new ways to explore the thoughts inside my head. I also get to experiment right now. I’m not type-casted into one thing because I wrote something successful. Instead I get to just create. And when it does reach people who like it. That’s the gold. It means that I shared with people who maybe needed to read what I wrote. Who wanted to feel what I do, hear the words of encouragement, or even just escape into something outside of the everyday. I got to share my art and the things I’m passionate about. Even if it is a myth that’s been told a million times.

With all that being said, why didn't I ever finish this piece when I came back to writing? I don't really know to be honest. I love the story of Medea. I love twisting the myth and making her more of a jaded women forced to be the villain. Deep down, I think this piece is still being held back because it became a lesson. It woke me up and challenged me to stop writing for other people, because even in the world of writing, of creating, you won't be happy with it if its never for your soul.