I Wrote Something This Month

When I was a kid, I wrote stories and poems in notebooks. A pen feels good in my hand, and I've always loved writing on paper. The things I wrote were for me, and they helped me. Sometimes I just needed to get some feelings out. Sometimes I had an idea for a novel that never got past page two. Sometimes I just wanted to rhyme and get ink on my skin.

I slowed down a bit after an incident in 7th grade: We read an article in class about a teenager who published a fantasy novel. She carried a notebook around, too. Somebody in the room decided that was the moment to shout out, "Rebekah does that!" (I can't remember who it was, and that bothers me a little. I was in the same class of roughly 17 kids for nine years and most of my memories of them are pretty specific.) This awful teacher (who only lasted a year at our school) directed me to read something from my notebook. I tried to refuse. The rest of the class got in on it, and the teacher said I could let someone else read it for me. I gave up and let a girl sitting next to me read a diamond-shaped concrete poem that didn't make much sense to read aloud and only contained a few unique words. From then on, I tried to be more subtle with my notebooks.

After high school, I went to film school. I was constantly overwhelmed, being 18, anxious and depressed. The things I wrote for school were decent, and I enjoyed writing them. I finally started to understand the point of writing nonfiction. I rarely wrote for myself anymore, though. Sometimes I'd revisit a few "comfort ideas" I'd been playing with since high school, but they didn't go very far. That period of my life is so blurry now, and mostly best left alone.

I got my first grown-up job working in a call center. When I started, there was downtime between calls. I taught myself to crochet between calls. I started reading for pleasure again. Eventually, I started writing again, too. One of the supervisors put together daily activity sheets for us. After I finished all the puzzles, I'd start filling the blank reverse-side with writing. Sometimes just ideas. Sometimes just talking to myself. Occasionally, an entire story. My bag frequently contained several folded-up activity sheets full of scribbles I thought I might want for later. Over time, things changed at the call center and it became too busy for downtime. I learned to get sneaky and discreetly write a few words during calls when I was reasonably sure no one was watching.

My writing didn't satisfy me at all, though. For all the physical writing I did during that time, almost none of it became anything. My ideas went nowhere, or I hated them by the next day. For all of my trying, it felt like the real spark had left the building. I'll say it a third time, because it still sort of baffles me as I'm writing this: I filled countless pages with ink, and yet it was the least "productive" I had ever felt. One minute I'd feel inspired, and then a short time later, frustrated. Angry, even. Where did my ideas go?

And then somewhere in-between the outer monotony and inner chaos, I found community. I followed YouTubers and podcasters who talked about horror projects that people were making. They uplifted independent creators and collaborated all over the place. I wanted in on that. There was an amount of imposter syndrome involved; I was afraid to share my writing because it was "bad", and I was afraid to share my ideas because they were "boring." But sometimes the groups hosted contests and collaborative projects. Seeing other people working on their contributions out-in-the-open helped me rally some courage.

So, once or twice a year, I actually wrote things. I finished things. I submitted things. I shared things. It was scary, but it was pretty cool, too.

I lost my job at that call center. Suddenly, I had to figure out what actual skills I had, what job(s) I felt I could do, and how to sell myself. The only thing I absolutely knew I could do was write. So, I decided I needed a portfolio, and I would have to start actually filling that portfolio. That's how I found Vocal. And, man, for two years or so, that really worked. The challenge prompts kept me going. I let people see my work and respond to it. I was productive and inspired, and sometimes I won a little money. I finally hit my stride as a writer, I thought.

And then it went away.

Things got bad in the world. It's worn me down a lot. Money got tight; I gave up my free time (and writing time) for a year to work a second job while my partner searched for work. Even after I stopped doing that side-gig, the mojo didn't come back. I would open Vocal to look at the challenges and spend weeks turning the prompts over in my head only to write a few paragraphs at most and miss the deadlines. The space in my brain where ideas are supposed to live is just numb these days. So far this year, the only thing I've published on Vocal that isn't microfiction or a poem is a vent-post, effectively just a scream into the void.

I keep thinking about how I went from my highest high to one of my lowest lows, and it hurts. The ideas don't come, and the ones that do taste like poison. I'll write one sentence, spend a week thinking about what comes next, then give up. Nothing works.

But then I wrote something this month.

My Facebook algorithm seems to know that I keep an eye out for writing contests. Late last month, it showed me a post for Dear Aliens. The idea is that the aliens are coming to Earth, and they're only going to read one document from us before they get here. What would you write to them? It's a cute idea, and I almost dismissed it thinking I'd never come up with anything. Then I noticed a secondary gimmick for this contest: You have to send in a physical copy, either typed or handwritten. Reading that scratched an itch in my brain.

I found an empty notebook, and I picked up a pen that lives next to my work computer. The pen felt good in my hand. I spent a half hour or so carefully writing a letter to the aliens. I made one mistake when my brain got too far ahead of my hand, and had to cross out half a word. Later in the letter, I put a short note in the margin, thinking I would probably give it a second pass and change a few things. When I was finished, though, I didn't want to change a thing. I loved how it looked. My handwriting is cute, and I've always admired it. The single mistake and the one parenthetical note add some authenticity so it. I filled the single, lined page perfectly from top to bottom. I had done it.

I wrote something this month, by hand, on notebook paper, and yesterday I put it in the mail. I may never see that piece of paper again, but it sure did some heavy lifting while it was here. Confidence: restored? Yes, partially.

Maybe I'll write something else this month.

Maybe I'll write something today.