The Vacant Rooms

One thing has been abundantly clear throughout most of my life: I have always wanted to be a writer. I spent hours clicking away on a modern-day typewriter in the mid-90s, telling the story of a young woman who fell in love with a mystical creature. I spent the early years of my young adult life extending the stories of beloved movies through fanfiction, playing with characters that were not of my own creation. With every story I have read, new inspiration is sparked. A new character moves into a vacant space in my mind and whispers pieces of their story into my brain. But then, as they settle and become comfortable in their new home, they stop talking to me.

Doubt has a way of spinning its web into the crevices of your mind, making you rethink everything you have ever thought and convincing you that you were wrong. My characters do not talk to me because I am not worthy enough to be their creator.  Who am I, but a silly woman who dreams of creating worlds and characters that others will love. But when it comes time to type out the stories planted within her mind, she is disappointed in what she has created. It is not to the standard of others, so therefore, it must not be good. The characters must agree because their voices are gone, lost among all the thoughts of self-doubt. Will I ever find the key and unlock the doors to their rooms so they will continue to tell me their stories?  Will they ever find me worthy enough to create them?