We went to the park earlier, so my siblings could play with a few other kids their age. Nobody was there my age, so, of course, I brought my notebooks. I unfortunately didn’t get to do really any writing (about 70 words all in total), since I ended up chasing the two year old all around (he had fun going down the shortest slide there and saying “Wheeee!” almost after he got to the bottom). But anyway, we got there, and I sat down and pulled my notebook out, all ready to continue with the scene I’d started this morning. One of my mom’s homeschool friends sees me, and she’s like, “What’re you writing?”
My response, of course is just the vague statement of, “A story.”
And so she goes, “Of what?”
For a moment, I panicked. I almost thought she was asking me what my story was about. And how am I supposed to answer that? I mean, of course, I know what my story is about. I’m nearly forty thousand words into it, so I should hope I have at least a general direction to go in. But as some of you can probably relate to, I hate telling anybody about it. Especially to people who I’m afraid might judge me for writing fantasy, but really, to anybody in general. Even family. Ugh, no, especially family.
After those first few seconds, I realized she wasn’t actually asking that. I’m not sure exactly what she was asking, but I said, “It’s fiction. For myself.” That seemed to satisfy her, but then she goes and makes the next mistake by jokingly suggesting that I should “include” her into the story.
Um…okay. I don’t even know what your name is. I doubt you even remember who I am, really, aside from the daughter of a fellow homeschooler. And you’re asking me to make a character out of you? Fine. I’ll make you into one of those characters you only see once, because they end up dead after that or something. The lady with the sunglasses and the really sugary voice that was talking to you about how expensive ice-cream is and then wound up dead for being associated with you because there’s a really evil villain in this story. Or something.
So then our other friend gets to the park, the one we were originally going to meet, and the first thing she says when she sees me is, “Homework, still?”
Gosh. Does anybody write things anymore that aren’t for school? I told this lady pretty much the same thing: “No, it’s fictional stuff for myself. I finished school early, actually.” Thankfully, she left it at that and didn’t say anything more. That might have been because then she was saying hello to my mother, but still.
And that is one of the many reasons I don’t like writing where there are other human beings. Non-writers can be so ignorant sometimes… it’s not their fault, but it can be slightly annoying. The other big reason is mostly that it’s hard to concentrate on writing something when my siblings are coming up to me and asking pointless questions like, “What should I eat for lunch?”
“Um…whatever you like to eat? I don’t know, I’m writing, go away.”
So that was my day. Anybody else have some, ahem, fun with writing lately?
On a slightly different note, I made up my mind about what I was talking about in my last post. I’m going to keep writing on the current project, at least for a little longer. Mostly, that decision was made by the inspiration for the other story coming to a total and abrupt halt (though I did get about a thousand words out of it beforehand), but also that I looked at my bar on the side for how many days I’d been writing in a row on that one story. At the time, I think it was about 21 days (though you can see now that it’s 25, as of this very moment). That’s awfully close to thirty. So, what I’m going to do is make it to that bloody thirty. Then, if I still want to switch, I’ll switch. But I’m going to make a full month before I stop.