Over the past week, I’ve been listening to and reading bits and pieces of a story that my wife is creating. It’s a damn clever story, and I’m thrilled to be able to help out with a lot of the plot and character development. I get to see and hear her clacking away on the keys, and then I get to read another few entertaining pages.
And then, over the last couple of days, I’ve been reading (and proof reading and copy editing) the story that my friend Govneh wrote recently. She’s put her trust in my judgement and opinion, and I’m honored to slash away with the red pen.
Then I think to my story. Yes, I have a story. No, you haven’t heard of it or read it since I haven’t been talking about it or doing anything with it recently. I’ve been bad. I want to call myself a writer, but I would be lying. I keep on thinking about all the books I’ve read, and how it takes a special type of person to be able to craft a story like that. But now, as my wife and friend get their stories up and running, I realize I was wrong.
An ordinary, everyday person can write something good. I hope they don’t take this the wrong way, but my wife and my friend are people I know, and they’re just normal people who do normal things, and they make good stories. Why can’t I? I realized this yesterday while at work. I started crafting an outline. And it’s fitting together! I’m writing things down. I’m putting black on white.
I did the NaNoWriMo thing, and I made something that I think either needs a whole lot of work, or needs to be quietly buried in a shallow grave. But my current story is something that I want to see happen. How long will I be able to keep going with it? Not sure. But I’m inspired now, so I’ll run with it.