I’VE BEEN BETRAYED

I sit there and reread those words over and over. It seems like a simple enough way to start. Good hook, matches the prompt, and all. A thousand things could come out of this one line; a thousand beasts slain, a thousand friendships made (or broken), a thousand ways this could go.

And now I have to write.

I AM RUNNING THROUGH THE FOREST FOR MY LIFE. I CAN BARELY BREATHE FROM EXHAUSTION AND THE PELTING RAIN HITS ME LIKE FREEZING BULLETS, BUT I KEEP RUNNING. I HAVE TO.

I stop for a second, mentally detailing a whole plot in my head. A dark night, a twisted woods, falling and slipping, the evil guy (whoever they are) catching up… and finishing up on a cliffhanger that the evil guy is looming over them and is revealed to be a former dear friend of the main character. But as soon as I think of it, I mentally slap myself.

No. No way. That’s too old. Too overused. Too short. How long can I make a run be?How is it not going to be like a thousand other stories? How will anyone care?

You know what, I’ll think of something better. I erase the words.

“HOW DARE YOU?” I WHISPER, MY VOICE BREAKING. MY HAND SHAKES AND I CAN BARELY MOVE. BARELY BREATHE. ALL I CAN DO IS STARE AT THE PHOTO, STARE AT THE PERSON WHO I THOUGHT I TRUSTED MOST IN THE WORLD. ONCE.

I sketch up another outline. Main character has picked up a photo or something similar revealing who the ultimate villain is… and surprise, surprise! It’s actually the best friend. Devastation follows.

But honestly… what does happen next? After they realize what happened. It’s only supposed to be a short story, after-all. There needs to be some sort of ending or cliffhanger. Best friend pops up out of nowhere and there is an epic showdown? Main character loses hope in humanity and leaves with the resolve to hunt down bestie?

I cringe at all the ideas. Stupid. I can do better.

On to the drawing board.

“THE PERSON YOU WERE LOOKING FOR? THAT’S ME.”

I FREEZE, STARING AT MY SISTER FOR A MOMENT. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN?”

SHE SMIRKS SMUGLY AT ME. “I’M THE KILLER,”

Surprise! The sister of the detective is the killer! Epic betrayal.

Except… murder and mystery and stuff like that where people actually kill others has never been my genre. I’ve never read it, I’ve never written it. What if I do something immature and/or stupid? Killers don’t actually come out and say they are killers, right? What if I mess it up and make it look like some middle schooler is writing it? It’s a cool idea, but I’ll just ruin it.

I stare at the paper again… except this time I really do have nothing. Nothing that ever seems to work.

I put my head in my hands. I don’t know anymore. I keep telling myself I’ll come back to these stepping stones later and finish it all up except I never do. I read a book, sleep on it, take a break, all of it. But when I try to come back, it’s the same story. Except there is no story.

The result is a bunch of unfinished drafts and a streak that never moves past a big fat zero.

I take a deep breath and try once more.

I’VE BEEN BETRAYED BY MY CREATIVITY. BY A STRESSED OUT MIND THAT OVERTHINKS AND A PAGE THAT IS EITHER BLANK OR FILLED WITH WHAT SEEMS LIKE UTTER NONSENSE.

I MISS THE TIMES WHEN I USED TO WRITE FREELY. WHERE THE IDEAS FLOWED OUT OF ME LIKE A RUSHING TAP AND THE ONLY REASON I WROTE WAS BECAUSE I LOVED IT. FOR ME AND ONLY FOR ME.

BUT IT IS NO ONE’S FAULT BESIDES MY OWN. SOMETIMES YOU HAVE TO STOP THINKING ABOUT THE READS AND THE LIKES AND THE COMMENTS. ABOUT THE GENRE AND THE EXECUTION. ABOUT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE AFTER IT’S WRITTEN. OR EVEN BEFORE THAT.

SOMETIMES YOU JUST HAVE TO WRITE.