For the last four years or so I have been using my endless talents to spam my suffering family members. Each person close to me has their very own story that gets a new chapter added as a present for birthdays and Christmas. Sometimes my ma will get an extra addition for mothers day too.
At first I was exceptionally enthusiastic about it all, busy creating endless worlds of magic accompanied with its very own ballad. Now I’m lost. Last year was one of no creation. There are too many stories, too many heroes, too many adventures, too many possibilities.
If I’m honest the truth is I’m scared. My son didn’t read his last installment. I was exceptionally excited about him seeing how I’d interwoven his real life with fantasy, making him the hero of an entire nation, but he obviously wasn’t that enthralled. He did give me a very good fob off, “I’m waiting until the whole story’s finished, I don’t like not knowing what’s going to happen”. Uh huh son, thanks for trying.
To be fair both of my children have changed dramatically since their stories were first created, one is a fully fledged emo teenager and the other is a techno addict. Neither fit in to the world of fairies and jungle explorer’s that I melded around them. So I’m scared to carry on their stories, rejection from your nearest and dearest is the harshest kind.
As for the rest, the five other epic novels in the making, what will happen if I do actually manage to complete them? For the first time in my life I will have a finished piece of work, a whole story. It will not only beg me to share it, but will also mean I have nothing to write, no quirky gift to offer, no reason to be stressed when there are still 6000 words to be handwritten in the best script in just two days time. The thought of being a writer, all be it a self proclaimed one, with nothing to write is mortifying.
Perhaps I shall start some more stories off right now, just to make sure there’s always one to tell.
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