While looking through some old files I had saved to dvd, I came across a bunch of writings I did years ago. Some of these works I had completely forgot I had even done, and reading them was like stepping backwards through time, reading what my younger self had written. And reading it I could see and sense all the energy, self assuredness and promise of an unknown future that lay ahead of me. I still marvel at myself and at the frequency I wrote. Almost all of the work I came across was unfinished, a testament to the old saying, “It’s easy to start writing a story, but hard to finish one.” I miss the old days where I would stay up at all hours of the night, either with a cyber jukebox playing me tunes, or the television in the background keeping me company as I wrote.
I remember setting aside a certain time at night, usually around one or so in the morning to write overnight. I’ve sense strayed from that, and it shows both my writing style and my inability to finish a story. To date, I have about two stories I’m working on, one a book and the other, probably a short story. I don’t know when or if I’ll ever finish them, but I hope to before this year is out. There are about two or three more stories dancing around in my head at this very moment. I need to get back to that, to setting aside a time in the evening to do that, to have my itunes or television as my companion as I write away. It took me years to get to a place where I had become comfortable and confident in my writing. Both in what I had to say and how I said it, and I’m in danger of losing all of that due in part to my own laziness.
Writing is one of the few things I can actually do well in life, and I’m not saying that to brag or anything, I’m saying that because it’s what I believe. In school while people dread doing a paper I look forward to it because I know writing is what I’ll excel at. One day, I hope to finish all of these stories that I’ve come across. One day I hope to take those ideas that are in my head and make them tangible. Here’s an intro to a story (it basically served as something to give me an idea of where I wanted to go and do with this character as well as a bridge to another story I was writing) I did about eight years ago.
He lay there on the kitchen floor, choking, gagging, gasping for air. His throat was slit from ear to ear, but the blood that should’ve been streaming from that wound was non-existent. Instead, a slow if barely noticeable, dribble crawled its way from beneath his neck. I had pretty much drained him dry to the point where there wasn’t much left of anything to come out. The life had long since slipped away from him in a violent and quick rush, but the body itself still reacted, or tried to, not fully realizing it was dead. I sat at the young man’s table, finishing the pasta primavera he had fixed an hour before and washing it down with the glass of red wine trying to cleanse my pallet of the aftertaste of blood. Most vampires savor and love the taste of blood. You’ll hear many describe it as this sweet, intoxicating thing. Some even compare the act of taking it into your system, the taste and warmth of it going down your throat and filling you full of the life it had once given someone else, as better than sex. Whatever. Blood was good, but it wasn’t that good. Personally, the taste took some getting used to, but it was passable. Still, I much prefer the taste of a good red wine to anything else red and liquid. And this was a good red wine. Finally, I could hear the noises the body made cease, realizing the life within it had fled minutes before and quits. The dining room of the apartment was dark, well not really dark, just the lighting wasn’t the brightest. It was romantic, with the ceiling light set to dim above while candles lined the round table I sat at. The shades were partially drawn, only letting a sliver of the outside in, and from there a beam of moonlight shone through. It was a full moon tonight, and somewhere out there, Joshua’s alter ego was prowling around doing god knows what. He had become a type of super hero now, whether he liked it or not. I do hope he’s alright. He wasn’t half bad…for what he was.