Writing on the wall

Writing on the Wall

I will start by saying that this piece has been sitting in my drafts for months now. When I first started writing it, I intended to focus on my thriller/suspense novel and submit it to the "New Year, New Projects" challenge. It felt like the perfect opportunity to showcase the ideas I'd been nursing for so long. But then I changed my mind.

Why? Because I began to feel the creeping shadow of burnout. Submitting to too many challenges, especially at the very last minute, took its toll. I found myself frantically trying to bang out a worthy submission in the final hours, hoping against hope that it might garner some recognition. But more often than not, I'd be left disappointed—not just by the lack of reads or wins, but by the gnawing realization that I'd rushed. I hadn’t poured my best into it. That sense of failure, validated by the absence of acknowledgment, often left me questioning my abilities. Most challenge prompts sparked ideas almost instantly, but having an idea and having the time—or the energy—to execute it perfectly are two entirely different things.

I wish I could time-travel back to the early 2000s. Back to a time when I would close myself in my bedroom, shuffle through the CDs in my trusty 5-disc changer stereo system, and sit against the headboard of my bed, armed with nothing but a marble composition notebook and a pen. Back then, writing was pure. No pressure, no timelines, no expectations. Just music, my thoughts, and the unrestrained freedom to let my mind wander and create. The words flowed like an endless stream, unburdened by any need for approval or perfection.

Thinking back, I can’t pinpoint the exact moment or inspiration that led me to start the story I drafted in that purple marble composition notebook all those years ago. Perhaps it was a book I had just read or a TV show that had sparked my imagination. Whatever the trigger, the spark ignited, and I was inspired to breathe life into characters of my own making. I created a storyline centered around a high school girl and her journey of self-discovery, beginning with how she meets her crush when she takes a job babysitting his cousins. It started as a classic high school drama—complete with mean girls, awkward teenage moments, and the giddy exhilaration of first loves.

But as the story unfolded, it began to change. Gradually, it transformed into something darker, something more sinister. Why? I’m still not entirely sure. Perhaps my teenage mind, endlessly absorbing episodes of Law & Order: SVU, CSI, and countless true crime documentaries, was drawn to the shadows that exist in the world. Maybe my budding interest in forensic science paved the way for my storyline to veer off into darker territory.

Whatever the reason, the innocent story I started with soon morphed into a suspenseful and haunting tale. The two main characters I had created remained, but they grew up alongside me. As I aged, they aged. As I matured, they matured. Over the years, I infused the story with the things that fascinated me as I moved through different chapters of my life: criminal justice, psychology, the complexities of mental health and illness, the intricacies of human relationships, and even the science behind pharmacology and toxicology. It became a canvas for my evolving interests and curiosities.

Yet, my journey as a writer has been anything but linear. My writing ebbs and flows, much like the tides of life. There are moments when ideas brim to the surface, begging to be written down, and there are times when the creative well runs dry, leaving me stranded in a barren wasteland of burnt-out inspiration. I have countless ideas pinned to the wall, much like forgotten laundry left hanging on a clothesline—long dried out, devoid of life or substance. Characters I’ve created often feel like they’re trapped in limbo, sitting idly in a metaphorical waiting room akin to Beetlejuice’s "Neitherworld waiting room." Some are even more fragmented—scattered and disjointed, like Sid’s grotesque toys from Toy Story, mangled and awaiting resurrection.

Over the years, I’ve come to see my writing as cyclical, much like the weather, the tides, and the phases of the moon. It endures storms, high-pressure systems, and seemingly endless droughts. It pushes and pulls at my consciousness, sometimes gently washing over me like waves on a calm beach, and other times crashing violently, as if to shatter me against jagged rocks.

It waxes and wanes. At times, it shines brightly, illuminating the path forward. At other times, it disappears into the shadows, leaving me fumbling in the darkness. Right now, it feels like I am crawling through an arid desert, desperate for an oasis that seems just out of reach. Right now, it feels like I am clawing at jagged cliffs, fighting against the angry waves threatening to pull me under. Right now, it feels like I am shrouded in darkness—a new moon hidden in the shadows, its light obscured.

But through it all, I remind myself that these phases, however challenging, are temporary. Whatever season my writing is in, I know I will eventually make it through to the other side. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but I will. The key is to hold on to that belief, even in the moments when self-doubt threatens to consume me.

Sometimes, I just need to step back and reflect on the reason I began this journey in the first place. It wasn’t for attention. It wasn’t for accolades or recognition. It wasn’t for money or validation from others.

It was for me.

For the pure, unadulterated joy of creating something that is uniquely mine. And that, more than anything else, is the writing on the wall I need to remember.

I’ve expanded on your original themes, adding vivid imagery, emotional depth, and a stronger sense of narrative flow to meet your word count goal. Let me know if there’s anything you’d like to tweak!