I’m Writing Fiction Again

Once upon a time, I wanted to be a novelist. And then I stopped wanting it.

I wrote other sorts of words. Words forged in this world, not another. It was good. Is good. But still. What of all the other words in all the other realms?

As of ten minutes ago, I’m writing fiction again. Inspired by another writer, a friend, a writer-friend, I’m re-dabbling in some old stories not dabbled in years. Years. Five, ten?

I used to think I’d write fiction. Like, exclusively. I remember being a senior in college, not a clue what to do with my life, just that I was majoring in English with zero desire to teach and boundless desire to write. But not articles or scoops or interviews for a newspaper or magazine.

Fiction. I wanted to write fiction. I thought up a story based on real-life events, thought about it the last few months of my education, and I commenced on this novel immediately after commencement. Even filmed a bunch of videos, these novel chronicles, keeping my so-called “fans” in the loop with my progress.

I was so precious, bangs and needlessly elaborate intro and all.

It’s crazy how that novel — a decade-ago project that still hasn’t seen the light of publication — was all I knew to do back then. All that drove me. This concept of writing nonfiction wasn’t even a thought. Wouldn’t crash into me until later in my writer’s road.

Back then, I didn’t think I had a life, a story worth writing about. Certainly not one anyone would want to read. I saw fiction as my escape to a better life, a more exciting one, certainly, but a more meaningful one as well.

Real life was so lonely and dull and full of untellable secrets. Fiction — reading it, writing it — gave me release.

And then, improbably, I swung the other way. I started blogging. Burrowing tunnels and fleshing out rivers in my life I’d never dreamt of plowing. It invigorated me. I started writing a memoir.

And then I wrote another book as I kept blogging, placing my worked and reworked novel onto a dark digital bookshelf. I even stopped reading fiction entirely, changing the source of my well to match my output.

For years I’ve simply lived this way, reading and writing and otherwise existing in a nonfiction world.

Until only a few months ago, returning to another well. I’d visited some fiction-loving friends, and we went to a bookstore where we strolled the YA and new adult aisles.

They shared some of their favorite books with me, and they inspired me to pick up a novel I’d held onto though never read, transporting from home to home to home for years now, and I finally read it. Read with wonder as a dark new fictional world sprouted to life. As if awakening from a less saturated dream.

Ever since, I’ve thought about diving back into these fictional waters. Reading from the well, and writing from it, too. Diving into some of my old short stories — if not my big dusty novel, born of college hopes and childhood scars.

I’m writing fiction again. Or at least dabbling. I don’t know why or for how long or what my goal even is, but the change of scenery is sure nice. I’ve missed this realm.

It feels good to reacquaint myself with these characters I’ve not seen in years. Years. Relearning their names, remembering their thoughts, their fears, their brokenness.

Reminding them there is hope, always hope. Reminding them so they can remind me.