Tag Archives: Short story

Declaration of love – I AM A WRITER!

Writer Wordart

Writer Wordart (Photo credit: MarkGregory007)

Listen closely, so you don’t miss it.

I AM A WRITER!

I used to be embarrassed to tell people I was a writer.  This was because it was immediately followed by questions from them like, “What have you written?”  “Would I recognize  your pen name?”  and the worst…”Are you famous?”  They all made me cringe.

So I stopped saying it for about 15 years.  And I stopped writing what I loved to write…fantasy fiction.  I half-heartedly pursued my journalistic career, tried radio, giving lectures, paralegal work, but very little in the way of fiction writing.  I thought I couldn’t have the name if I didn’t play the game.  This led to thinking that I probably wasn’t good enough anyhow.  What little writing I did do seemed to corroborate what I was thinking, which resulted in more years of not writing and not feeling satisfied inside.

Witchcanery – 1st edition

Then, at the urging of my husband, I left my job as the news editor for an online gaming site.  I took up the writing of a book I had started from an idea I developed in a short, short story contest.  It was a crossover fantasy fiction novel, with some science fiction thrown in.  I had loved the short story, and I was rapidly falling in love with the novel, which I had named Witchcanery.

I self-published it.  It did so well, that I turned it over to another publishing company to publish a second edition.  Then my past caught up with me.  All the projects I had gathered about me to keep me from writing demanded completion.  I was caught.  So I started this blog to help me keep my hand in about writing.  That helped some, but it also added more work to keep me from my fantasyfic writing.

Finally, I said ENOUGH.  I will write.  And you know why?  Because I AM A WRITER.  And I had to get serious, because keeping away from writing was making me ill, which of course took away more time from writing.

So far, I have departed from most of my volunteer work and am disposing of my small web design business.  I am learning to say no.  And I am intent on finishing my one business writing project, so I can write.  The challenge offered by Jeff Goins has fired me up again, and my spirit will prevail.  The trumpets sound and the golden curtains part as the words blazon themselves in the sky and in my heart.

I AM A WRITER!

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The foregoing is the exercise for Day 1 of the 15-day program to master 15 habits of great writers.  The challenge today is to declare I am a writer in public.  For more information click on the Participant badge in the sidebar to the right.

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Despair

Oatmeal and cornflakes Christmas cookies

"So I make him cookies when my husband is gone..." Image via Wikipedia

Once again, Fantasyfic writer Eric Esteb has written a chilling flash fiction story that still gives me the shivers.  He has kindly offered to let me post it here for him as a guest writer.  Thanks, Eric.

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Despair

by Eric Esteb

Despair is a man who lives on my street.

I believe in being a good neighbor, and my husband is gone on business a lot, and toddlers aren’t the great company you might expect. He seems lonely, when I see him (which isn’t often to be honest) I feel his nature wash over me. It drives the others on the street away, even the local teens, bored and wasted on hormones leave him alone, but it just makes me want to talk to him.

Despair is middle-aged and lives alone. I’ve never seen a woman coming or going, early in the morning when the sprinklers run, and when it’s day time he only ever wears the same ratty looking robe and unkempt, spotty beard. At night he wears an old black suit but the beard stays.

He’s the kind of person you might worry about… you know when you read in the paper about a neighbor noticing a funny smell coming from someone’s garage. Sometimes I worry I’m going to be that person, telling the paper, “I’m as shocked as anybody! I thought he was just quiet, if I had known he was in such a bad way I would have helped!”

So I make him cookies when my husband is gone and leave them on his door step with his paper (which I pull out of his unwatered rose-bush) on the weekends.

Only recently has he started taking them. He leaves the platter on my doorstep when he leaves his house late at night. I seem to be getting through to him, and im happy but there is something else. Something in the pit of my stomach twists, when I drop my son off at day care, or make love to husband or have tea with my girlfriends it’s like a part of me isn’t there any longer.

I don’t know if I’m going to keep making the cookies to leave the man named Despair just a few doors down from mine.

People say cookies are made with love. I know this is going to sound crazy but it’s almost like he’s taking that little bit of myself that gets baked into those little cookies and taking it for himself. What would the reporter from the paper say when someone complains of a bad smell and they get around to asking me why I quit. “It was your cookies keeping him going Debra.”

“It’s what he lived for.”

So I guess I can spare a little more of myself. I want to be a good neighbor.

428 words
Copyright (c) 2011 by Eric Esteb
All rights reserved.