If I were to choose any career just for the joy of it, it would be a writer. Unfortunately, that career path isn't as lucrative as others or nearly as successful.
However, when I can find the time, I write. I just wanted to show an excerpt of a short story I've been working on for over 2 years called "More Tears Are Shed Over Answered Prayers Than Unanswered Ones" which is a quote from the novel In Cold Blood by Truman Capote. The short story has very little to do with that novel, but that quote has left a heavy print on myself.
Even those I said this short story has been 2 years in the work, it's not something I work on everyday (obviously). The story is done, and I touch on it here and there every once in awhile. I have another short story in the works that is looking more and more like it should become a novel; but I'm hoping to keep it as a short story.
Here's an excerpt from the story. A little bit of a background: the story is about a man stuck in his loft due to a violent storm that does not seem to go away. He has suffers from a mental illness. The actual mental illness is not mentioned in the story, but his medication is Abilify and he suffers from psychotic symptoms - in this case, paranoid delusions and hallucinations. The violent storm has left him trapped in the loft without medication as his prescription bottle is empty and needs a refill. He is reading a novel to keep his mind occupied of hallucinations he seems to be suffering when this occurs:
I shook if off, shook off years of begging and pleading: God doesn't want to listen, and I learned to stop caring about him. Like a son to a father, it's easier to deal with him not being there for you if you have no expectations of him being there at all. I returned to my alternate reality, back to the pages of another time - then I heard the front door slam. I dropped the novel and shot upward. My shadow began to look more erratic, as if the casting fire was raging with madness and only the fireplace was containing its insanity. Then I saw it: another shadow. I snapped around, towards the mantle to see a man - hair parted three-quarters, his intimidating shoulders were on fire, his presence filled the room; navy-blue top, pressed and sad; his shadowy face only broken by the callous sclera of his vindictive eyes. All this paled at the sight of his shotgun staring right at my heart.
Please. But before the words parted my lips, a flash of light came over the room; his malicious smile was splashed onto my eyes like a picture on a film. Nothing, I felt nothing. I looked down and just stared at the crater where I believe my heart once stood: never have I seen this much blood - so real, so very real. The wooden planks disappeared in a ripple around me as a lake of blood appeared in its place. I looked up, expecting to see this man, this fiery blue man, staring at his masterpiece with pride. I am God; look at what I have done. I saw no man, only a looter: bustling of drawers, tossing of cushions, flipping of mattresses. Coward.
The other story I'm working on is called "The Abduction of Jane". I can't really get into many details of this story as it's pretty difficult to describe. I've been working on this story for about a year. Right now it's still a short story, a little under 30 pages - but it has plenty of room to grow into a novel. In its current structure, readers get confused as I try to put way too much in this short story. Expanding and separating the story into a novel and chapters will alleviate a lot of those issues. Here is the first paragraph, keep in mind the story is written in a middle english style. The story is about a woman who is being sent to an insane asylum:
It is mid August; the fallen leaves of autumn's plight line the road to what is to become my retreat from a world that demands my silence. A woman of wit forced to silence of woe. How detested one must feel from the vermin of man, the makers of merriment for their own selfish virtues, if one can truly call them virtues. As this cart draws nearer to its destination - I cannot help but to reflect this present reality. Take into account the matrimonious rigor preceding this predicament - one can only stand aghast to the pretentious irony dripping onto these pages, onto the drama entitled "My Life". Well, I have never been one without the theatrics - for instance; even now, as I stare out this cart onto the passing trees, I do not see slumped victims of nature, but friends, bowing in my honour: "Brave Jane; of the utmost valour who stands unhinged and in stride. From the dawning Elysium to the setting asylum, I prithee - oh, marked one, Godspeed and good-bye". Fate it seems, for I take with me not the swift aid of God; but my scorn of him, of the times, and of society. Ah, another irony mixed in this cocktail of the unreal: abandoned by a society that has already abandoned my humanity - how witty.
My stories, poems, etc, seem to always have an underlying theme revolving around mental illness and religion. What can I say, it's what I'm good at writing about.
Thanks for taking the time to read these. Constructive criticisms are more than welcomed. I understand this is a short excerpt, but it is a short story, lol.