I am a writer. If I do not put words into order, something in my soul does not sit right. I am taking a writing major at this college in the hopes that it will help me do so better. I have stories bouncing around in my mind that need to be shared. So when my poetry and fiction professor finally assigned a short story, my little creative mind just started spinning. I have so, so many to share.
The problem is: none of them are short stories. When I have an idea, it branches off in many ways and to many places that have nothing to do with the "plot". It might be because they serve as my entertainment while I'm paying attention in class. They run in the background like a movie, and I laugh at my own jokes and cleverness. Entertaining? Yes. Conducive to actually writing it down? No.
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Despite what you may think, limitations encourage creativity. The professor, along with the assignment itself gave a list of items that had to be included in the story: a lie, an old photograph, a 14-year-old. Having to work these things into whatever plot you plot forces you to think of other possibilities besides the obvious; a snowstorm can be paper, and farm animals can be plastic. I honestly wedged all of the items that wouldn't fit naturally into the "old TV show" requirement. 80's sitcoms can get away with lots of stuff.
Another limitation is on genre. Normally, I prefer to write things that are dissociated with the "real world", or only thematically connected. I use writing(or, honestly, vivid imagining) to help me deal with my anxieties about events and trends in real life. The professor made it clear that we would be writing strictly "literary" fiction, grounded in the real world and designed to "do justice" to an event or experience. So be it. I'm flexible. Don't see why I can't do justice to fantasy, though.
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After a certain amount of caffeine, and enough hours awake and focused, it all melts away. Your fears, your self-judgments, your certainty that the words you are putting down are absolute garbage, gone. It was beautiful. I wrote it all down, listening to "Afternoon Delight" on repeat, even on the way back from the library after it closed for the night. The minimum page count was 8 pages; I wrote 18.
Then in the morning(ugh), after printing out two copies, putting the envelope in the professor's mailbox, and telling most of my friends about it, my pride sublimates to something like shame.
I am a writer. This is what I do.
