Making

I’ve almost “quit writing” a lot. Probably once every year during college. I’ve dragged my “Novels” folder into the trash a few times. It’s never stuck. I think it might be different this time.

I started writing fanfic a little while back. It was 2017, I think. Ficlets here and there, nothing impressive, for a tiny fandom. Then this February, about a month before the first lockdown, I had a misophonia-induced breakdown in a library and, to purge the fallout emotions, wrote a one-shot for a considerably bigger fandom. I must have posted at a good time; it had what I consider a good reception. After that, I picked at longer stuff. I finished my first multi-chapter. A few other one-shots. Everything got a handful of comments. It was nice.

I’ve been telling stories since I was at least six. For the past few years, I’ve finished at least one novel every year, and my current NaNo streak is still unbroken (six years this November 30th at around 9:00 PM). I’ve won a few contests. I wrote that post a while back about how I’ve written over 600k words just through NaNos alone. Writing has been my life since I was old enough to conceive of myself and my life in general.

I don’t know what I’ll be without telling stories but I think I’ll have to figure it out, because whatever that was, I don’t think I have it anymore.

At some point during NaNo, when I was trying to hit my wordcount – any wordcount; the word count I needed to catch up, the typical 1,667, my usual 1,000, 500, 100, a finished sentence – something snapped and I started sobbing over my keyboard. My keyboard isn’t in good shape, so that was mistake #1. “I’m broken” was all I could say, which was melodramatic but, even in hindsight, sounds accurate to the experience. I just went to bed afraid for my life.

I still won NaNo, and I even enjoyed my story occasionally. It’s my oldest story, one I’ve been writing since I was nine. The last four days I had to write 5k to make it, and I did. If I’m proud of anything, I’m proud of my ability to duct-tape myself to a chair and get the work done. But I’m not particularly proud of what I wrote. I wasn’t proud or glad or [insert any other positive term here] when I won. I wasn’t even really that relieved. I didn’t finish the book, so there was still work to do. And two books after that. And then time to pick another story to write. Next April is the first Camp NaNo of the year.

And what’s the point?

I’ve written a few fanfic in the past couple months. A new multi-chapter thing and another one-shot. They’ve received very, very little attention, even though they’re in the bigger fandom I write for. The clicks-to-kudos ratio is not flattering.

I don’t particularly feel like talking about my original fiction, but the point is that there seems even less hope for my original stuff striking anyone’s fancy than the fic.

I’ve always known that I wrote stories to connect with people. What my favorite books did for me I wanted to do for other people. I’ve never been capable or even desirous of writing for myself. Call me a bad Christian but I’ve never even been capable of “writing for God,” whatever that means. God doesn’t need my stories. They’re supposed to be for other people. If I can’t reach people with them, why waste the effort writing them?

I’ve been reading less this year, too. I quit my bullet journal. The written word and I aren’t on speaking terms anymore. What I’ve been doing has been making. Got a sewing machine, started with masks, and just kept on going. I’ve made shorts, a dress with hideously large pockets, a cat-sized quilt, a skirt or two, all while Bernadette Banner and Micarah Tewers were on repeat in the background. I knit my first sweater. Made a few hats to donate. I’m working on some more donation projects, and making some presents both for my own gift list and for others’.

It comes easier. It’s harder on my back and sometimes I want to curse until the air is aquamarine because I am physically incapable of sewing a straight line. But I can listen to audiobooks or podcasts or whatever, and I can knit or crochet standing up sometimes, and more importantly the things I make are physical, tangible objects that can be given to others to demonstrably improve or at least brighten their lives. I can buy supplies from small local businesses or recycle from thrift stores. It reminds me of the value of patience and time and clothing and labor.

If I still found joy in telling stories, I would be excused from the selfishness of continuing to spend my time that way instead of making things for people who need them, who will benefit drastically more from a few hours of effort than my sitting at a desk with delusions of grandeur and an overblown opinion of my own abilities. The results of 2020 are in, and it’s that my storytelling isn’t meaningful enough to anyone – other people or me – to spend the time it takes me now just to get half a chapter on the page.

It’s not good enough for people to spend the time on, and it’s not joyful enough for me to spend the effort on.

I’m sure it won’t be a sudden break; it’s not something you go cold turkey on, I’m sure. I’d like to finish my WIP fic. I’d like to finish the book I’m working on, although that one stings to think about right now. Kind of like I put my hand in the sink and cut myself on my best bread knife. I don’t know. We’ll see. It’d be nice to think I’ll come back to this one day but I don’t know about that, either.

If something’s not worth it, it’s not worth it.

So 2021 won’t be a year of storytelling for me. It’ll be the first year that isn’t a storytelling year for as long as I’ve been around. But maybe it’ll be better for that – for me and for everyone else, who won’t have to listen to me complain about writing and who might reap the better benefits of my redirected attentions. Even a few hats for people who are cold has to be a better net gain for the world than whatever I’m doing now.