Writers plan

‘I’ve got a plan!’ I said to my husband Tom as I rushed into the living room. I grabbed his wet, soapy hands and he could barely drop the knife he was washing.

‘I’m going to write a Reedsy short story!’

He knows I’ve been struggling with writing, after my first book. That was about three years ago, when I was in the middle of a burnout. It was recommended to me as a form of therapy, but the whole process of creating the characters, thinking about the story lines and doing research, secretly grabbed me somewhere along the way.

But then, after finally having mustered up the courage to send my baby to an editor, I received the feedback.

Even though it was written kindly and very respectfully, it made my stomach drop and feel chills all over my body. Between the lines, I had read: ‘Your book is boring and flat, it’s a flop. No-one will want to read this.’

After a few days my tears stopped appearing on unappropriated times. Then I was ready to reread the feedback, and I could finally see the jewels of wisdom and valuable lessons I had been given.

So I started writing with renewed energy. But, putting these lessons into practice was harder than I expected! At least three stories saw the glory of a dawn, but none of them grew into maturity. My thoughts got in the way every time.

‘What if my character is too flat?’ or ‘What will happen in my plots?’ and even ‘What if I can’t write? That I’m not a writer at all…?’

For months I had been dangling between feeling inspired, eager to rewrite my novel, and fighting my urge to just give up completely.

Then I found Reedsy! I was overloaded with so many new insights, techniques and tips, that it sometimes was too overwhelming to grasp. They even provided a weekly writing contest. ‘A short story, somewhere between 1.000 and 3.000 words, I think I can do that!’

Inspired by this thought, I ran to Tom to tell him and then tucked myself away in my office. The moment I came in and sat down, the birds started chirping in support in my garden. The smell of dried lavender and thyme on my walls soothed my senses, mixed with the warm smell of my cinnamon-apple scented candles. The warm yellow of the wallpaper was even enhanced by the glow of the morning sun.

As an aspiring writer, and this being my first short story, I enthusiastically plunged into research again. At some point, after skimming another brilliant blog, I wondered whether I was procrastinating or adequately preparing myself. There was no way of telling. After all, I didn’t even know whether I was a planner or a pantser yet.

The more I learned, the further the golden sunbeams shifted on my wall. Finally, the moving shadows, chasing after each other in my windows, drove me to draw the curtains. As I lit my candles, I realized there’s simply too much to learn. It was time to just sit down and actually start creating my story.

‘So, how to start a story,’ I mumbled to myself after half an hour, blankness floating in my brain. ‘Maybe I have to do more research about it?’

Tom’s knock on the door reminded me it was time to get some sleep. Work awaited me the next morning.

Lying next to Tom I confessed: ‘Oh, if only I could write a decent novel… I really don’t have to become rich, but if only I could quit my day time job and earn enough with my writing, that would be so wonderful!’ He pulled me close and his warmth soothed me into a dreamless sleep.

The next day, after dinner, I was determined to write at least 200 hundred words. But after having a staring contest with the blinking, black, bully on my screen for at least an hour, I decided it was time for a cup of tea. I had persisted, but ultimately I had to admit I had lost this round. Maybe a little break would give me some inspiration.

‘How is your story going, Christine?’

‘Still hiding and eluding me. But I’m patient, my story will come to me when I’m ready. Or when she is ready, I’m not sure yet. I do feel like my story is a “she” this time.

‘Maybe if you let it be for the moment? Come, let’s have a walk together! The smell of fresh air always clears the mind!’

His offer made my belly rumble. Even though I was stuck in my writing, I didn’t want to give up for the night just yet. At the other hand, I had been hiding in my office for several nights that week.

Finding the balance between pursuing my dreams and spending time with Tom and my grown up daughters was an everlasting rivalry. But when I looked in Tom’s warm, blue eyes, I gave in and agreed, internally heaving an small sigh of surrender.

After the walk, it was too late to write, just a as I expected. So I stayed for another drink and we went to bed.

But a few hours later, I was still awake. As I bit my lip and lay curled up in a little ball, slowly, the tears rolled down my face, leaving an increasing wet spot on my pillow. ‘How can I write a story that people will enjoy reading? And what if they’ll hate it?’

My mind was spinning, twirling and making cartwheels in my head. It kept me awake for the rest of the night.

***

Wonderful, it was Sunday and still early! Tom lay with his arms and legs spread out all over the bed, his breathing slow and deep. That gave me time to write! The moment I walked into my office, I felt the warm kiss of the sun. It was going to be a wonderful day!

The blinking cursor even seemed less aggressive today, the black a tad less black than yesterday.

‘That’s it!’ I surprised myself, suddenly speaking out loud. ‘I’ll write about writing a story!’ I thought, and butterflies suddenly appeared, fluttering around in my stomach as I type the words “I’ve got a plan!” to start my short story.

Apparently time had slipped away, just as fast as my fingers had danced across the keyboard. Tom’s knock on the door made my stomach jump up and play tag with my tonsils.

‘Do you feel like going out for a bit and grab a coffee together somewhere? The sun is shining and it’s nice and warm outside!’

Only then I noticed how much lighter and warmer my office had become. My eyes danced between Tom’s beaming face and the words I’d finally manged to write on my screen. My eyes kept being drawn to the monitor, but because I had been working for several hours non-stop, I decided Tom had earned my attention for a while.

After the coffee, we went for a stroll down the river and ended up in a restaurant we hadn’t been before. We sat down at one of the small round tables at the back of the restaurant. A smooth cloth embraced every table and the chairs were covered with a warm orange velours, inviting you to enjoy long, romantic dinners, accompanied by delicious wines. The enormous mirrors on the wall and the wineglasses on the tables reflected the lights of the candles, creating a thousand twinkling lights.

‘Isn’t this wonderful?’ I said to Tom with a sigh as I caress his fingers.

‘Yes, it is…’ he replied after taking a swig of his beer. ‘You were up early, weren’t you? I hadn’t noticed that you got up.’

‘Yes, I woke up feeling excited to write!’

‘That’s wonderful to hear, how did it go? You’ve been working for several hours, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, I was finally able to start a new story. I told you about the Reedsy contest, didn’t I? I’ve decided to write a short story about my writing process.’

‘Oh, really…?’ Tom looked away and took another swig.

Something in his voice had made me doubt it was a good idea after all. Maybe he was right. Maybe the subject wasn’t that interesting at all.

Lost in thoughts I took a sip of my wine, but the exquisite taste was lost in the storm in my head.

‘Hey, what’s the matter?’ Tom placed his finger under my chin and made me look him into his eyes. ‘Are you crying?’

I looked away and with the tip of the napkin I tried to save my makeup.

‘It’s just… Who would like to read about writing anyway? Or maybe the subject of writing is interesting, there are enough articles and blogs. But who would be interested in reading my story?’ A sob was stuck at the back of my throat and I tried to wash it away with more wine.

‘That’s what’s been bothering you? My dear, of course they will be waiting for your stories. There can never be enough writers in this world! Each writer has a unique voice. And every story is a unique one That’s why the readers are eager when a new novel of their favorite authors is released.’

‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ my voice a bit shaky, due to band that had held my stomach hostage started to loosen a bit again. ‘I think you’re right! It doesn’t matter what people think, does it? Or at least, it shouldn’t matter to me!’

‘That’s my girl! Did you know that, generally speaking, 33 percent of the people agree with a subject, no matter what the subject is. That 33 percent disagrees and that 33 percent has no opinion about it whatsoever.’

‘Really? And what about that one percent?’

‘They’re on holiday!’

The laughter that came out of me, floated on a wave of relief, that came rushing out of my body. There would always be someone who’d like my stories! At least 33 percent!

***

On Monday morning I had planned to write a little every day. I even told Tom that I would be spending some time in my office every evening. Of course he supported me, the sweetheart.

But it took me until Thursday to actually find the time to write again. I sat down, but this time the cozy yellow and the soothing smells couldn’t comfort me. I kept thinking about the past few days.

On Monday I had to work late. By the time I came home, I was devastated. Fortunately Tom was so sweet to cook dinner for me.

On Tuesday, our eldest daughter surprised us with a visit. We didn’t see her very often, so I was delighted to have her in our home again.

And probably I had taken too much on my plate the last couple of days, because yesterday I felt a bit under the weather. Even though I really wanted to write, my mind was too fuzzy to even put the words in a sentence in the right order, so I took a warm bath with patchouli oil and went to bed early.

So, it was Thursday already and it was me against the computer once again. The wonderful feeling and flow I’d experienced last Sunday morning, felt like a dream today. I read and reread what I had written so far, and had to suppress the feeling to delete every word I had written so far. I also suppressed the feeling to pound the table with my fists! I knew that I had something. It was good enough to keep, but I just didn’t know how to continue anymore.

I even tried to recreate the same circumstances as that Sunday morning, but the more I tried, to more my skin began to itch and I had to start to pace the floor to let all of the energy out.

‘What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I just sit down and write like any other writer?’

With a sigh, I sunk back into my normally oh so comfortable office chair. But today, even the chair seemed to taunt me.

‘This isn’t working…’ I said softly and defeated to myself and decided to sit with Tom to watch the television and lick my wounds.

Friday. Today had to be the day. The story had to be send in before 11:59 pm EST… Of course, I could try it again next week, with a new topic. But it wasn’t just the story itself. I also wanted to know that I had accomplished something. To have finished a story, with my new knowledge and and my new approach. I knew that several people would read it and I desperately hoped they would like it this time!

‘Right… What’s holding me back, right now?’ I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and tried to relax a little. When I thought of my story, and pictured the moment I would send it to the jury, the pit of my stomach started to squeeze tighter and tighter.

‘What is happening? Why am I feeling this way?’, I whispered as my eyes flew open wide and I found myself sitting straight up in my chair.

‘Just take another breath….’ I said to myself as I gently sent my breathing downwards to my lower belly again. Softly I started to lean against the backrest again.

For the second time I imagined sending in my story to the jury and again my stomach pulled together.

‘Wow, I’m just scared of what those people might think… That they will judge, or even worse criticize me. Well, that’s just a chance I’ll have to take!!’ Determined I pulled my chair closer and started typing vigorously.

Suddenly I found myself staring at my screen. I had nothing more to write! It was as if I’d woken up out of a trance. I suddenly felt the need to get up and get a glass of water or at least do something.

The moment I walked into our living room, Tom looked at me and probably saw something in me face, because he immediately stood up and asked: ‘Christine, are you alright?’

I looked at him and simply said: ‘I think I’m done! I think I finished my story!’

He took me in his arms and congratulated me.

‘Let me read it!’

Together we went back to my office and he read my story.

‘You have to send this in, this is wonderful!’

And now I’m waiting, both curious and excited about what the jury will say. But in a way, I’ve already had my victory: I finished my first short story.