Yesterday, I published my first piece of fiction writing in nearly 30 years. It feels silly to say that, but then that’s part of the reason I’ve done it. For as long as I can remember, I have been obsessed with the art of storytelling. When I was young I used to write and write, and dream up all sorts of different stories that I dreamed of serializing and creating entire IP spaces out of. When I was 7 I wrote a piece of fiction that was published in a state-sponsored literary quarterly and won some award for it. Probably everyone got an award, I don’t remember, the point is: I used to want to tell stories.
Then life happened; I got interested in other things. But I always came back to stories. I’ve been a voracious reader my entire life, and interests there ebbed-and-flowed as well. There was a period of time where I read non-fiction almost exclusively. This was on the heels of the period where I read science fiction almost exclusively. But the art of the written word has always fascinated me, and I’ve always had an itch to get better at it myself.
Forcing myself to write 500 to 1000 words each morning, prompted or unprompted, so as to hone my ability to draft, edit, and shelve. To give myself permission to do it. And, over the past two weeks, I’ve gotten about five short stories under my belt. I’m doing this while also writing a weekly (fiction, technological) column, and working a day-job.
But the benefits have been incredible. I feel like I’ve got my brain back. All it took was: reading, writing, and staying away from algorithmic fast food. Now, if I could only apply similar logic to my physical well-being, then I’d feel a little more complete. Most days I feel like I’m both swelling up and melting in on myself.
Anyways, you can read the story I published here. I hope you enjoy it.
Currently Reading: Underworld by Don Delillo / Halting State by Charles Stross
Currently Listening:
Signal Intent 