If a story is in you, it has to come out.
-William Faulkner
This week I wanted to do something a little different. As much as I love reading, I also love writing. However, it is a lot easier to discuss what someone else has written than it is to share my own work. As a girl, this wasn't much of a problem. I would write story after story and share it with anyone who would listen, no matter how atrocious my grammar was or how bad the story might've been. I would even "write scripts" (or, rather, I would attempt to) and put on plays with my friends. I loved it; it allowed me to put my imagination on paper. I wanted everyone to experience the joy I had from my own stories.
Growing up changes a lot though. As I grew, life happened, I matured, and so did my anxiety and fear of what others think. I developed a perfectionist mindset early on, and for some time now, it has kept me from sharing my writing and opening up myself to criticism. I have been pushed to do just that since attending school and getting my bachelor's degree in English and writing. To share stories, accept criticism, and learn from it. I have found that there is a deep joy in this. As hard as it is sometimes to share stories near and dear to the heart, I think it's important because how could we ever improve without receiving feedback? I also dream of publishing my books someday; we all must start somewhere.
So, for fun, I thought I'd share a short story that I recently published on Kindle Direct Publishing. In turn, I'd love to see someone share a piece of their own writing below. There is something very vulnerable about sharing one's work (which is part of why I self-published my short story in the first place), and I think it would be special to open up a space to share. So, in saying that, here is a portion of a short story I wrote last year titled "Measure My Days."
The toxic fumes filled my nose, and the hot air burned my throat as I tried desperately to breathe. Blinking my eyes as they watered and burned, I tried to see clearly through the thick smoke to where Chris was. If I didn’t move quick enough, I knew I was going to pass out. Holding my shirt over my nose just so I could attempt to keep the pollution out of my lungs, I stumbled my way through the smoke to where my suddenly unconscious new brother was.
“CHRIS!” “CHRIS WAKE UP! You have to move!!”
This yelling was to no avail and was only causing me to bring more smoke into my lungs. I knew he probably had maybe less than ten more minutes till the smoke would kill him. So, I grabbed both his arms and pulled with all of the strength I still had. It took all I had, but I finally made it into a clearing that had a large boulder I could barely make out.
Roughly dragging him the last few steps I got behind the boulder and looked desperately to see if I could find the water. I knew I had to do something or else the smoke would knock me out too in a matter of minutes, or... with tears streaming down my face, eyes burning from the smoke, I felt horrified at the thought of burning alive on this mountain.
“God, help us, help us please” I coughed and gasped trying to catch my breath. Slowly, as I felt myself begin to black out, the sound of whirring and chopping met my ears. Smoke swirled about, trees began rustling violently, and everything faded to black.
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Questions
Below in the comments share a piece of something you’ve written I’d love to reaad it!
Do you struggle with a perfectionist mindset?
How long have you been a writer?
Comment below and let’s discuss!
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References
Brianna Renee. Measure My Days. Kindle Direct Publishing, 6 Feb. 2023, https://a.co/d/c0ncABl.
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