Hidden Under the Bed

I was procrastinating the other day and started to look through a file on my computer that I had labelled, UNDER THE BED. This folder had numerous folders that contained finished manuscripts, story ideas, and beginnings. Many times I'll just write a short beginning to get the idea down and then abandon it for whatever reason.

I wrote this one in September 2008, and I simply labeled it as Nanobot story:

Prequel

Death would have been the easy way out.

But, of course, I wouldn’t be allowed to take the easy way out.  Nope, I had to wake up in hell and rejoin the living.

Life sucked. 

I hazed in and out of consciousness for an undetermined amount of time.  Surfacing and sinking, only to be forced to surface once more--the never ending cycle of drowning, except I wasn’t allowed to suck in water to complete my death. 

Euphoria and lack of pain soon led to body aches I never thought possible.  Hell, even my throat hurt.  Originally, I thought it was because I had been screaming in my nightmares, but I soon learned it was due to the tube they jammed down my throat and taped to my face.  I was alive, but only due to modern technology.  A machine pumped oxygen in and out of my lungs filling them with air, forcing me to live. 

I was aware of hazy entities that came in and checked various tubes jammed into places that shouldn’t have tubes jammed in them, or to type on the computer near my head, or to jab something into my IV tubing. 

The next time I awoke, it was different.  Instead of floating around in vague awareness, I was awake, sort of.  Voices murmured from across the room—both male, one of which was really pissed off.  So, of course, I tried my damnedest to eavesdrop, which was damn hard to do with the oxygen hissing in my ear and the freakin’ monitors beeping.

“Dammit, Doc!  It’s been six months already.  When the hell is she waking up?”

He was answered by a low murmur.  Damn doctors, always were worrying about the patient confidentiality issue.  It was just me they were talking about. . .

Shit.  What happened?

My memories were sketchy at best.  But I did remember the grinding and moaning of steel as it tore and crunched from the impact.  A car wreck.  And I’ve been in the hospital for six months?  What happened to Dan and Elena?

Oh.  My.  God.  I knew without a doubt they were dead.  My life, my reason to live—gone.  Grief ran through me.  If there had been any fluid in my body, I would have cried.  Alarms started going off next to my bed as my emotions spiked my blood pressure and heart rate.

A nurse stepped up to my bedside, flipping switches to reset the monitors, as she spoke nonsense in a soothing monotone voice.  She pulled a syringe out of her pocket and injected the intravenous port in my hand.  Lethargy shot through my veins as the drug took over.

I like this woman, I thought as I dropped out of consciousness.

So what do you all think?

How it all began. . .

Today's blog post brought to you by another question from Iggy:

Did you study writing or is this all stuff that you have gleaned from experience (or, both)?
OR
"How I Began my Career as a Writer and then Diverged into Dabbling among Unrelated Professional Fields as well as Marriage, Motherhood, and Pet Care until I could See My Way Clear to place my Passion for Writing ahead of All Else except for The Hubster, The Kidlet, a Shaggy Dog, and The Zen of Swimming Pool Maintenance"


I was not born with a pen or keyboard in my hands, though I did write an article about Redbud Valley for the Girl Scouts when I was eight. That was all the writing I did for years, except required school work, until twenty years ago when I took a writing class at the local Junior College to get an international student ID--I went to Europe for my bro's French wedding and backpacked alone for a few weeks--and with that writing ‘experience’, I stopped writing for 12 years.


Fast forward, I was thirty-nine and just had my first, and only, kidlet and I wondered if I could write a book. Yes, I was like all those women with too much time on her hands. Of course, this was after I had taken 20 years of Bon Appétit magazine recipes and organized them into 13 binders.

I wrote the NEXT GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL! Yay!! Too bad I was the only one who thought it was good. I joined RWA (Romance Writers of America) and my local romance chapter RWI (Romance Writers Ink) and started the looong trudge up the learning curve.

DAMN! It was tough. I went to conferences, read numerous craft books (I’ll name favorites if pressed), and suffered through the red pens of some wonderful women who wanted to help me become a better writer. Though I must confess that it didn’t feel like they were helping at the time!

I didn’t ‘work my way up' to writing novels—I started out writing novels, most of which are under the bed. Each novel that I wrote taught me about writing—along with the numerous rejections that I’ve garnered over the years. I used get upset with ‘form’ rejections, but now, I just shrug off the personalized ones. If it isn’t for them, so be it, it isn’t for them.

I started judging writing contests, first, because as a member of RWI you had to judge their contests, and two, because I started enjoying it. Each contest that I judged taught me about myself as a writer, in that the problems I saw in other writer’s manuscripts I started to see in my own work.

I think I wrote my first short story (a murder mystery) in 2005—rejections ensued. My next story was my blog serial, Sugar Plum Disaster. Short stories are hard. You have very few words to engage the reader and tell a story. Recently, Janet Reid (an agent who I’d LOVE to have in my corner. They don’t call her a shark for nothing!) started a blog challenge by listing five words that must be used in a 100-word story. A hundred words, people! Now, that’s a challenge! Another blog, Evil Editor periodically does something similar, usually when he’s bored and issues a weekend challenge. I’m totally impressed with the talent out there. And no, I can’t do it on they fly like so many others can.

It doesn’t matter what you write when you start on the path. Short stories won’t make you a better novel writer, or vice versa. Writing will make you a better writer.

My one and only suggestion: Write what you are passionate about. That passion will infuse your story, AND THAT, will shine through.

To steal a phrase from Nike, “JUST DO IT”.

Write on!