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|Drifting Apart. (standard:other, 2037 words)|
|Author: red1hols||Added: Apr 03 2003||Views/Reads: 2284/1502||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|I can't explain - you will have to read it to understand.|
Drifting Apart. It happens to everyone; that I am sure of. One day you just wake up and start your daily routine and then suddenly realise that something is missing. You halt mid-task and just wonder what the hell you are doing. Actions that brought such great pleasure are being undertaken as if you are paying your taxes or balancing your cheque account. That's what happened to me. Last week, I sat down to do something that I thought I would enjoy and I found myself having to set myself little rewards to get it done. When you have done one, you can get yourself a cup of coffee. After two, treat yourself to a chocolate biscuit. You know the kind of thing. I was sat there treating my own attention span like I would assign chores to a seven-year old child. Not only that, I found that my attention span reacted just like a seven year old child. I found myself taking shortcuts. Sweeping the evidence under the mat without thinking if anyone would notice. When I first started my daily routine it was so different. I would sit at my computer and write. The blank screen would fill with words and the angst, tension and anger would drain from my soul. There didn't need to be hours preparing a plot, somehow the plot just weaved itself among the words. For hours at a time I could sit at a screen and through some kind of exotic magic, produce a story. Don't get me wrong; I still get the same relief, the same pleasure and the same sense of release when I write. Writing isn't the problem; it is just where it all started. To begin with, the writing stayed on my computer. It was my therapy. It was my soul that was being bared. There didn't seem to be anything else that I needed to do with it. It was kept on my computer. Only it didn't stay there. I took the cork out of the genie's bottle. I shared some of my work with a friend. The friend was a true friend; she said some really nice things about my work. Her praise caressed the G-Spot of my ego and I experienced the first orgasmic feast of critical acclaim. From that moment, it was no longer enough to store my stories on my computer. From then on, they needed to be unleashed upon a wider band of readers. Having lost its virginal hue, my ego became a caged monster craving release from a wider readership. In April 2002, I stepped out of the shadows and made my first nervous steps on the catwalk. I posted my first story, “A Little One On One”, here at nicestories.com. That first story barely caused a ripple upon the pond. It might have been the end of things except a couple of people gave me some feedback. It was constructive feedback. True, they pointed out where I had made mistakes and where I could improve, but they also caressed my ego by telling me what I did right and what had worked. It was enough. I wanted more. The feedback was like virtual heroin. I was an addict. In the months that followed, I amended my first story and started to learn the hard lessons of editing. I quickly learned what didn't work when “Good Morning World!” was received with lukewarm incredulity. Thankfully, the bruises on my ego were quickly salved by the response to “Morpheus Hauls Steel on the A14”. I entered a period where I continued to wander down the catwalk, wide eyed and in awe of the amazing talent I found myself sharing a site with. All the time I learned and developed my own style. That learning and development is still continuing today. Over the last year I have pandered to my ego by experimentation with styles and genres. There have been successes which I have felt confident about sharing with my fellow members and there failures, consigned to my hard disk until I can face reworking them. All the time the steady stream of feedback from my fellow members kept my ego sated and quiet. Click here to read the rest of this story (144 more lines)
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