ijuswannawriteright - Tumblr blog

ijuswannawriteright · 6 years

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You Will Write Again

I know I am not the only one in the writeblr community who has struggled with their original work lately.

At the outset of our literary adventure, it’s seemingly inconceivable how we could ever tire of our beloved novel, our passion project, our masterpiece-in-the-making. Yet, despite our initial enthusiasm, that apparently-infinite source of fervor starts to wane. Our writing becomes a chore, a task, another check on the laundry list of life. And then, all too soon, the story ends without its climax, its resolution, its “happily ever after”.

It’s no small secret that these symptoms have plagued my projects recently. After months of continuous inspiration, that outpouring suddenly ceased. So, I rested. That’s a lie. I tried to “power through it”, to work myself into a stupor - and I did. I could not understand what interrupted the overflow.

Throughout this time, one song continually came to mind - Honest Questions by Daniel Bedingfield. Oh, I had a lot of honest questions to ask. Why had the inspiration stopped? Should I work harder to overcome this obstruction or should I take this time to rest instead? But above all else, I wondered: am I to blame for my own inability to yield the result I desire?

I wrestled with this honest yet unanswerable question for weeks. I searched for an answer in every nook and cranny I could…except for the very song that prompted this expedition. Amidst these lyrics of pain and promise, one phrase haunted me: “I will pour the water down upon a thirsty, barren land and streams will flow from the dust of your bruised and broken soul. You will grow like the grass upon the fertile plains of Asia. By streams of living water you will grow.”

I have never possessed the power to change Winter to Summer, Spring to Summer, nor Fall to Winter. Why would I assume I could command my life to produce fruit in a dormant season? I cannot control the seasons in my life - but I can choose to trust the One who can. Or, for those outside of my own faith, trust that every season in life, just as on Earth, will too pass.

Yesterday, I trusted. Today, I wrote again.

I would love to tell you that I have an answer for your inspiration shortage. I wish I could give you a formula to follow so that the creativity returns to you once you complete these three easy steps. But ingenuity is not so straightforward. Life is full of winding paths and impassable roadblocks and gates that cost a hefty price to pass through. You might need to fasten your bootstraps and strut through that storm until you pass the rainclouds by. Or maybe you need to lay by the wayside and sleep until the storm subsides. I don’t know. But I do know one thing: this season of fruitlessness will not last. Seasons are, above all else, only temporary. And when the new season comes, those storms will have yielded a hefty harvest. Hold on to this truth:

You will grow again. You will create again. You will write again.

That is a promise.

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ijuswannawriteright · 6 years

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This is part of a short story I did. I was working on a first person pov.

Excerpt from a short story I’m working on

THE NIGEL ROTHMOORE ACCOUNTS

Today is a good day. Tonight, is going to be better. Jen from accounting agreed to go out with me. Pulling open a desk drawer, I take out my cell phone to read Jen’s reply one last time before I pick her up. We’ll be going to The Brass Tap, a local bar not far from headquarters, where more than a few of us have drinks after work. This is the first time I’ll be taking a date.

I’m a field agent at the Miami branch of the F.B.I. When I tell people what I do for a living, the first thing they think of is shows like 24, Quantico, or the blacklist. I want to punch dumbasses in the mouth when they make the comparison. There is a lot of legwork involved, but just as much paperwork, and I’d rather have a cold beer in my hand versus a ballpoint.

Yes, Nigel, I’d love to go out for drinks. Pick me up in front of the building after work. See ya soon. J. 😊

Butterflies flutter in my stomach when I think of her. She’s a sexy, intelligent, five-foot-nine, thick in all the right places, brown-skinned beauty, with legs for days. I watched her for about three months before I made my first introduction. She’s the life of the party, and a beast on Karaoke night, but I wanted to know if she was more than that. I feel the electricity from our first handshake even now. Over the last few months, we’ve talked while hanging out with the group, even flirting a little. Still, it took me all this time to ask her out. Tonight, I’ll need my A, B, and C game.

I rock from a swoon. Yes, I know it’s not a masculine gesture, but I’ve been trying to get up the nerve to ask Jen out for so long, I was beginning to think I never would. She has turned down every guy in my division, and a couple of unstable relationships in my past had me a little gun shy.

Why am I surprised she said yes? I have a great deal to offer. I’m employed, I have a master’s in business, did six years in the military, and have no kids. I own five condos downtown, so I have a fallback plan when I’m done at the agency, and I work out two hours every morning before work. I’m six-foot-six, clean shaven, even on my head, and I practice a Vegan lifestyle. I am literally the poster child for tall, dark, and handsome, I just hope Jen thinks so.

Stirring with imaginings of this evening’s possibilities, my mind wanders. Jen’s closed The Tap down a few times, but she always left alone. I never knew if I should feel sorry for her, or jealous of who she might be going home to. If all goes well, the future might have her coming to my place for a nightcap, and then who knows.

I slide my phone back into the drawer and close it. We’re allowed to have cell phones, but we can’t use them during business hours, so I keep it on silent. I work in a high-security branch of the building, and it has its own encrypted satellite phones and intranet. We are told it’s to keep the temptation for espionage to a minimum, but we all text back and forth anyway.

Trying to remember the last date I’d gone on; eight years comes to mind. I prickle a little. One, because it’s been that long, and two because the date had been a disaster. A flash of heat warms me. I’ve gone out in groups during these last few years, yeah, and I’ve socialized with ladies in a workplace setting, but no more one-on-ones since Taliyah.

I’d thought office romance was a bad Idea before I did it, now I know it is. Taliyah and I were getting to be good friends when we went out eight years ago. I made my intentions clear in the beginning, but she wanted more. I didn’t, and I slept with her anyway. It was a terrible mistake, looking back, and I’ve regretted it since. The few times I’ve run into her in the halls or got trapped with her on the elevator have been awkward, but with all my efforts to apologize, she still won’t talk to me.

I swore I’d never go out with anyone from the workplace again, and I haven’t wanted to until now. A chill spiked in my bones. The thought of getting hurt unsettles me, but the dread of hurting someone else scares me more. I don’t want to over analyze it, but it did feel good to be attracted to a fantastic woman like Jen. I can only hope she’ll come to feel the same about me.

Being on my own for so long, I’ve gotten used to it. I find comfort in late work days and solitary nights. Somehow, not wanting to date at work trickled into me not dating at all.

So off in my head, I don’t hear anyone enter my office.

“What a day, huh?“ A low voice wafts just inside my doorway.

My eyes bobble. It’s John Chambers, the agency’s top interrogator. He’s the guy that gets viable intel from detainees. He has an impressive 100% success record and is known for using his methods of persuasion on his peers. Getting a confession from a detainee was one thing, using them to take a man’s paycheck in our weekly poker games was another.

I hate him and am taken aback by his stature every time I see him. Wafer thin, his pasty white skin is a contrast to his black, stringy hair. You’d think, for what he does, he’d be larger. With a 197 I.Q., I guess you don’t have to be.

I pick up my pen and begin to sign the last of my documents, not acknowledging John, in hopes he’ll go away. No such luck. John looms, his presence sucking the life from the room. In a contest of strength, John would be no match for me, but he knows how to get into your head. In that aspect, he’s formidable.

I shuffle papers around, fighting the urge to bang my fist on the desk and shoo him like the pest he is. It isn’t only me. John’s ruffled a lot of feathers around here. To make matters worse, he’s our boss.

“Niiiiigel.” John sing-songs.

I ignore him, electing to count the seconds ticking off the clock on my desk. My shift is almost over, and the sound of John’s voice can’t mean good news. The ire in me brews. He wants a favor, I can feel it, and John doesn’t take no for an answer.

“Niiiiigel.” John sing-songs again, this time his voice an octave higher.

I look over at him, now plopped comfortably in the chair on the other side of my desk.

“Jeez, how do you find anything in this swamp?” He asks, lifting corners of file folders with a pen. “Am I safe? Do I need a hazmat suit?”

My organizational skills might be haphazard, but every “i” was dotted, and every “t” was crossed. Not even John’s snide remark can ruin my mood, but a sudden stone sinking feeling says otherwise. Please, don’t let this be some last-minute bullshit assignment. If I say yes, I’ll miss my chance with Jen, If I say no, I’ll be in John’s cross-hairs—more than I already am.

"What do you want?” I ask, signing the last form of the evening.

“Is it that obvious?” John says, looking disappointed.

I pretend to search for some papers so I can get another peek at my cell tucked away in the drawer. I’d left the text open. Jen’s message is still there.

“Hell yeah,” I say, trying to hide the blush of excitement that has nothing to do with John. “I’ve known you for ten years, worked for you for seven. Every time you want me to do something you don’t want to do, you open with a random question followed by huh. What a day huh? How about that weather huh? That was a close one huh?” I mock.

John laughs, “ya got me. Guilty as charged.” He makes frantic waving motions with his hands. “I didn’t know I had a tell. Thanks for the heads-up, buddy.”

Opting not to react to his “buddy” crack, I look at my clock instead. One minute more, and I’m free to leave. Each click of the second hand is like a step closer to the exit door—closer to Jen. I’m no fool, John wants something, and I can’t help the curiosity building in me. Still, no matter what he says, I’m not breaking this date.

The final minute clicked into place, the clock hands pointing the way to freedom.

“Six o’clock, time to go.”

Snatching up my phone, I amble to a coat rack by the door. I slip on my jacket, slide my phone in one pocket, and pull my keys out of another.

“Since you asked,” John says.

“I didn’t ask you anything.”

“Yes, you did,” John playfully spun the chair around, revolving three times before stopping to face me. "When I sat down, you asked what I wanted.”

“I was being polite.”

“Nevertheless, you asked.”

My shoulders slump. Go’dammit! He’s about to pull rank.

“What I want… What I need—” John corrected, “—is for you to go down to interrogation and re-read those witness statements from the bombing this morning.”

That’s part of your job ass hat, I screamed, but only in my head. John isn’t the kind of man you want for an enemy. But I can’t bite back the disgusted sigh forcing its way up my throat. Breaking his jaw was my first impulse, but I go with diplomacy instead.

“I’d love to boss, but I’m off as of right now,” I check my watch. Shit, five minutes late. “I’d be happy to do it tomorrow.”

“I see,” John says, a malevolent note in his tone, “so then I can assume the After-Action Report on today’s events is finished? You are the lead investigator…riiight?”

When John feels the need to exert his control, he cuts into you with his beady, bloodshot eyes, and gives a long drawn out, “riiight” at the end of his sentence. As tall as I am, I feel four-and-half feet shorter. There’s no way I’m getting out of this but seeing Jen this evening is enough to make me try.

“I’ll do it in the morning, just like I have for the last seven years.”

“Not tonight,” John’s bouncy demeanor turns professional, “Top brass wants it done before we leave.”

“You know I hate writing After Action Reports at the end of my shift. I like to step away, go home, have a drink, relax, and do it the following day.”

A sinister grin blossoms on John’s face.

“I could do it for you,” John says, “if…”

“If I read the witness statements.”

“That’s riiight.”

Spinning my keys around on my finger, I consider his offer. I need a way out—one that doesn’t have me here longer than necessary. I must stay calm, but damn it, if he says that riiight crap one more time… It wrenches me like a wrung-out rag. My face scrunches every time he does it. He must know it bothers me—I guess I have a tell too.

“How about this, let me go, and I’ll do’em both in the morning?”

My elevated voice spills out into the hallway, momentarily pausing a few passer-byes. That was not my intention, but the idea of missing my chance with Jen has me wound up.

John looks at me—calm, sitting one leg crossed over the other.

“I kinda need it done tonight though.” He says, with his eyes drooped and his mouth pouted.

I drop my head, defeated. Being late is bad enough, now I’m going to have to cancel. My brow furrows and lips purse. He has me on the ropes, with my hands down at my sides. I’ll call Jen and see if she is open to a late dinner afterward. Maybe I can spin it on some romantic, moonlight rendezvous, something or another. She should like that.

"Fine John, I’ll read the freakin’ statements,” I jerk my jacket from my body, almost stabbing the hook through the collar as I hung it back on the coat rack. Rumbling to my seat, I flop down hard, with a huff. “But if I do this for you,” I continue, “you’re doing that damned A. A. R. for me.”

“Deal,” John says, voice full of excitement as he catapults from the chair. Scurrying out of my office, he finishes with, “there’s only about ninety, to 100 statements.”

“Ninety, to 100?” I say, my voice echoing back at me,” that’s going to take all night.”

“Nah… shouldn’t take you more than seven or eight hours tops,” John says, his voice trailing off as he makes his way down the hallway, “I’m out of here, see you in the morning.”

“Out of here?” Damn near climbing over my desk to get to my office threshold, I topple file folders and knick-knacks to the floor. “You said you needed everything done tonight?” Confusion mixes with my already boiling blood. “What about the A. A. R.?”

“Already done it,” John says behind a wave, skipping down the corridor, his back still turned, humming aloud.

That dirty mother—he played me. I step back into my office and begin to pick up the scattered items from the floor. As I do, I try to find the best way to apologize to Jen. A good five minutes passed before I had the perfect plan. It’s worth a shot, I’ll give her a call.

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