When I was young, I thought I wanted to write novels and short stories for a living. I imagined, as young people sometimes do, that it would be easy and that everything I wrote was solid gold. In reality, I penned a quippy, smart-assy journal that often ignored or missed the mark, and when I look at it now, it seems like a giant waste of my potential.
Flash forward to today, and my writing has matured, though I’m not sure it is where I want it to be. I just finished a short story, Agua Fria (link), but it feels incomplete. My short stories tend to be shorter than most because I am not writing to an audience like my wife or some of my fiction-loving friends who like to disappear into long, involved stories, but to myself, and to say what I want to say in the most economical fashion.
I am also actively engaged in writing more things on paper, which to me seems to evoke a more primal sense of what I’m trying to say.
Maybe my takeaway could be that it’s okay for me to write what I want to write, how I want to write it.