Last night, on the spur of the moment, I wrote a short story. An interactive short story. I wasn’t thinking about marketability, writing formulae, or anything other than expressing the little idea I had. I suppose it was a bit like following a writing prompt (something I’ve never really tried, though I know other authors (especially of the “must write every day” sort) are quite fond of such exercises) in that I saw something in the world which prompted me, and spent the next four and a half hours writing out my interpretation and expression of the ideas it gave me. (Here’s the story.)
It was quite nice to write that way. To simply chase a random idea. To go from nothing to finished, published story in just a few hours. To be writing for a platform (inklewriter) which doesn’t currently/really offer much hope for “monetization” and thus be freed from any concerns beyond writing something fun; fun for me to write, hopefully fun to read… No stress, no expectations, no rules, and the only deadline was “this should already be done; the conversation it’s a response to is already over,” so I couldn’t put it off at all, only get right to work or watch it fade into total meaninglessness before it even existed. No chance to over-think it or second-guess myself, only to write, write, write. It was nice.
It would be pleasant to have more of my writing go like that, in future.
I think that’s closer to the sort of writing experience which led me to ever believe I might enjoy writing. At all. Let alone full time. It seemed like a good first step on the road back to being the sort of creative I want to be. Creating what seems fun or interesting at the time, rather than what I think other people want from me, or what might translate into profits down the road.
I’ve no idea what I’ll create next, right now, which seems just as it should be, and I sincerely hope it’s as pleasant an experience as this was.
