Thursday, April 16, 2020

The Writer I used To Be


   Apparently I'm one of those strange animals who really enjoy stories I wrote many years ago. Especially now that I've lost so much and have re-read all of my previous books in an effort to reestablish those worlds in my mind. I feel I'm once again a part of the worlds I built, but it's the characters and their motivations I'm still not sure of.
   I see so many writers out there bad-mouthing their own writing and complaining of, "Impostor Syndrome", what ever that is. Seems to me if you don't enjoy reading your own writing, no one else will either. First and foremost, write to please yourself. Believe it or not, there are plenty of others out there who enjoy the same stories as you. Ignore the 10% who will dislike you and your stories no matter what.
   I've gone back and read some fan-fiction written many years ago that was the catalyst for making me want to learn how to write. Those words still hit me emotionally. Granted, the grammar is atrocious and punctuation is non-existent, but the emotions of the characters still comes through. I wrote the story I wanted to read at the time. I enjoyed it then and still do now.
   I'm so afraid, since the surgery, my writing no longer has the depth to it as before. I can still turn a phrase or develop a scene, but my characters fell flat. What I've written in the last few weeks is okay, but still feels like something is missing or not right.
   Any thoughts or suggestions would be greatly appreciated, and I'd just love to hear from you.
   Thanks for reading.
   If you're interested, here's a small sample of the fan-fic from years ago.



   “Please tell me more about those memories,” she asked. “I don’t understand how memories of past battles could be of much benefit to you.”
   “I didn’t just get a few memories of battles, Moraine. I have the complete day to day memories of close to a hundred men. Oh, not any memories of childhood or growing up, but starting in adulthood. As near as we can figure, they start around four to five hundred years before the Trolloc Wars when I was a general for Maccine, King of Eharon, and end around the time of Artur Hawkwing. I’ve been a First Lord of Manetheren and an Eharon High Prince. I led armies during the Trolloc Wars and fought against Hawkwing numerous times as different men, rarely with any success. I remember attending balls at the palaces of kingdoms that are now only piles of rubble. Those ballads you sing Thom. Some of them are about me and a few I wrote to mourn the loss of someone dear to me or to celebrate a victory in battle. Those memories used to be all separate men but now they are all a part of me. I am those men.”
   Moraine glanced up at Mat when he paused and was surprised to see him shaking. She saw that Thom’s eyes were locked on Mat in a way that told her some of this was new to him also. With a profound shiver and a clearing of his throat, Mat continued.
   “Some of the memories are short because those men made mistakes and died young. Some last for years of men who were very successful. Unfortunately, every one of those men died in battle. I remember every death. I remember choking on the blood from an arrow in my throat or chest. I remember all the sorrow, anger and hopelessness as darkness came. You have no idea what it feels like to die over and over again.” Mat paused. “And here I thought Rand was the one who was going to go crazy.”
   Moraine and Thom both stared, struggling to comprehend the enormity of what Mat just shared. How could any man deal with something like that and remain sane? Now she understood why Matrim had been shaking. This was what she had seen in his eye but was unable to fathom. How could she? The pain and sorrow of a hundred men’s deaths lay smoldering in the depths of his soul. For what he had done for her today, she vowed to find something or someone to ease that pain.

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