I remember when fiction came easy; when it wasn’t anything to churn out hundreds and thousands of words about places that existed only in my mind, places that only I could see clearly. I lived in a world dripping with creativity, with fantasy, with make-believe.
It isn’t like that any more.
I used to feel so strange, because I was still imaginative long after my peers had grown into a level of logic that I was trying my hardest to escape.
I think I grew into that logic, that realism, in some ways, because fiction doesn’t come easily any more. I can create poem after poem, and blog posts galore, if given time.
But fiction? I’m struggling – and it hurts. It hurts to know that I’m doubting my abilities to create worlds out of words, all because I gave one opinion too much weight. And I’m past that; I’m writing again. I’m creating, but it’s different. It’s difficult, and it used to come so naturally to me.
I’m sitting on the floor in the Writing Center, though, and I’m trying. I’m trying to describe things that nobody else can see; I’m trying to write out these scenes taking place in my mind, but they’re so elusive – they come close enough to taunt me, and then they dance just out of my reach.