A Thousand Words That Changed My Life

I cannot remember a time when I could not call myself a writer.

That’s not hyperbole. I literally cannot do it. I started writing from a very early age—blame comic books—I was an early (avid) reader and it seemed only natural, instinctual, to make up my own stories about Spider-Man and Marty McFly, as well as my own original creations, some of which are with me, at least conceptually, to this day (at  age 30).

As a writer, you are the primary reader of everything you put to page; you are perfectly poised to see your own preoccupations and prejudices, genesis and growth: I remember when I could finally read my stories aloud (and have them sound like real stories). I remember completing my first major short story (17 pages). I remember recognizing a certain maturity in my writing after taking my first journalism course. And last week, I wrote a 1000-word short story (a tale of sex, drugs and love) minus any recognizable profanity.

This most recent accomplishment may seem dubious.

However, as wordsmith, my tonality skews more toward the blue spectrum of vocabulary, despite my aspirations of literary fiction. For example, Lincoln’s Dare, my first novel, is a six-day frisk through collegiate hedonism, culminating in a nine-person orgy. The subject matter may seem to belong within the ranks of purple prose, but I’m of the mindset that if Portnoy’s Complaint can be considered a literary classic while discussing deviant masturbatory habits, then certainly I can write a book about an orgy that need not be categorized as “erotic fiction”.

Not that there’s anything wrong with erotica.

The short story in question, Party Games, came literally, from nowhere. I was at work, mentally hopping from one thought cluster to another in an attempt to shake something loose. These things happen, rock metaphors aside, it’s more like having a giant ring of keys to a magical, sinister, lock that constantly changes its shape. A key that worked yesterday may not work tomorrow and sometimes you slide a random key in, the tumblers align and you step forward into new territory. Party Games was of that particular persuasion. Tumblers in a lock: sex, love, social media and ecstasy—BOOM—it’s story time.

As I reached the end (I was aiming for the 1000-word count and hit it square on the nose), it came to my attention that I hadn't dropped the f-bomb once. This was curious as I had planned to use it in several passages where it never graced the page. I thought it, but didn't write it. As I scanned further, I noticed that the other blue characters of the f-bomb fraternity were also missing in action. Again, not on purpose, they were simply outclassed by much more beautiful, lavish, words. Words, which—I guess—after nearly three years of non-stop prose—climaxing in a begrimed 300 page book—refused to languish within the recesses of my filthy mind any longer.

I had grown.

We’re often unprepared for change. Most of the time it sneaks up on you, knocks you to the ground, and sits, heavily, on your chest until you submit. And sometimes you catch eyes with it across the room, quietly, as you both attend to your own individual businesses, each recognizing the other with a nod and moving on, just the same. I am proud of my growth. I do wonder what it will mean for projects henceforth, but I’m also excited to discover I have transcended limitations I didn’t even know I had.

That I still have so much to learn.