I think it always sounds so pretentious when people call themselves a writer. I don’t know why, but whenever I do it, I feel like a fraud. Yes, I write 100-word stories semi-regularly. Yes, for several years I made my living content writing on a freelance basis. But I know in my heart that what I really mean by “I am a writer” is I am a novelist.
I have not yet completed a novel, so I don’t think I really am one.
But I want to be one, and They™ always say “Fake it ’til you make it.”
So that’s what I do. I write because life is too hard for me, and I want to create worlds in which good wins. I write because I have regrets and I want to create characters that find redemption, even when I, myself, don’t know if I’ll ever find my own. I write to be heard. Doesn’t everybody just want to be heard?
I’m taking part of a blog challenge run by Amanda McCormick. I have trouble keeping up with this blog (in so small part because I want to update it and expand it but I can’t afford someone to design a good website for me. Even if I purchase a premium theme I’d need help actually using it and I can’t afford to pay someone to do it) and I think it would help me connect more with readers and, honestly, myself if I updated my blog more often.
Don’t worry. Everything I post here will be relevant to writing or reading or me. It won’t be a spam dump just to attract views. I promise. PINKY promise.
This one is autobiographical.
I despise where I live. I want to move back to Washington, where communities have grown more organically, not as much of a bubble as where I live now.
I don’t belong here.
Traffic at one o’clock?
Undoubtedly. The schools get out at 12:58 PM on Wednesdays. Everyone is picking up their children.
There are three elementary schools within a mile of my house.
I gave directions to the sweet lady at the grocery store. Which way to the Marriott? Oh, just take Street 1 to Street 4 and turn right. The road will bend, and you’ll see it on the right.
Yes, ma’am. Very efficient.
Yes, ma’am. My husband’s commute is only fifteen minutes. Everybody in this town also works here. No reason to look elsewhere.
Master-planned lives in a master-planned community.
©2018 Heather Stephens
I don’t want anything on an enormous scale (except time). I don’t want an enormous amount of money. I don’t want an enormous amount of fame. I just want to be heard. I want people to see my books at Barnes and Noble, even if they don’t choose to buy it. I want to be heard.
Most of all, I want my books to be available at libraries, free to access for anyone. I want people to find a friend in me, solace in me, even if they never talk to me personally. I want to help.
This week’s prompt from Thin Spiral Notebook is Library.
Rustling papers. A whisper. The pitter-patter of a toddler’s feet as they try to find the book about giving a mouse a cookie.
There. Spreadsheet done. Now she can work on her passion project—her first book.
Maybe someday it will be available here, in these sacred halls, accessible by anyone in her community. Maybe someday a teenage girl will stumble across it and it will change her life.
Maybe someday a shy college boy will read it and realize he could be a better man.
Just a dream, for now. Attainable, but not yet.
Eventually, someday will be today.
©2018 Heather Stephens
For this prompt, I decided to go autobiographical.
There has never been a time in my life when I didn’t want to be a writer. I wanted to do other things too, but always be a writer. I’m not very good at writing, but I’m passionate about it. I put it here online in the hopes that my voice will be heard. I don’t need to be famous or paid well to love writing. Writing itself is the joy.
It’s always been my dream to be a writer. For many years I have felt that it is important to tell stories and have your voice be heard. That is all I really want. Not money, not fame. Just to be heard.
It’s difficult, however, to defeat the nagging voices that tell you being a wordsmith is not your calling. To struggle with your own mediocrity is painful. Heartbreaking. But the secret to being a writer is having the passion to do it anyway. To keep learning to perfect your craft. To write, even if no one will read it.
© 2016 Heather Stephens
A man could lay himself down at the end of the day, satisfied that he had achieved all that he set out to do.
A man could be content, knowing that he knows no master but himself.
Can women claim such comforts? May women claim such comforts?
Because it seems to me that women have everything dictated to them: how they should look, what they should wear, how dramatically they may paint their faces before being branded a whore.
For men, freedom lies in the masculinity that gives them their confidence. The future is theirs, ripe for the picking.
Women must climb higher, striving to bypass the low-hanging fruit that men can reach so easily.