What does writing mean to you? What are the feelings that you contract from it? Does it make you feel nauseous because it is for a 1000-word essay, or does it make you feel happy and relieved when you can get some words down on paper?
I want to share a personal story about me and my writing. You know, the whole who, what, when, where and why sort of jargon that no one asked for but I felt like sharing anyway. Rest assured, it is a story worth telling.
At certain moments in life, everything can seem utterly overwhelming, and the light seems to darken at the end of the tunnel. There were times when I wanted to give up and times when life seemed too much. This story is about what kept my heart beating and legs walking on Earth.
In June 2015, I was browsing Barnes & Noble with my mother when I spotted a book in the horror section that caught my eye — a book that was almost raising its finger and dragging me toward it. All it took was a glimpse of the cover featuring a 1958 Plymouth Fury, and I was in love. It was one of those mass-market paperback books that could easily fit inside your pocket. I did not steal it, of course. My mother bought it for me, and she got a good return on her investment since I read it cover to cover quite a few times.
That small paperback book was “Christine” by the great Stephen King and was the stepping stone to realizing my dream: to be a writer. Not a writer who just writes words — ironic, I know — but one who entertains an audience while writing for themselves. Every writer writes for someone, and I chose myself because I knew I would be hard enough on myself to try and create a masterpiece. I spent the next few years attempting to write, but all were dead ends no matter how hard I tried.
I like to think that God gave each person a gift when they were born, whether it’s be being able to tie your shoes quickly, multiply three-digit numbers together in your head or even memorize all the elements on the periodic table. I felt like I was the only person in the world who received a gift, yet I was not using it in the way intended. It was excruciating — like a fish dangling in my face that I could not reach, no matter how much I tried.
Time and time again, I attempted to write anything and failed drastically. A short story here, a poem there, but nothing worked — nothing looked right or sounded right. I became obsessed with perfectionism, relishing in a fancy word but hating it the second I read it out loud. There was no way to satiate my way of thinking, not even when I had all the time in the world to write and figure things out during the dreadful spring break of 2020.
It was a dark time for me: a time of no past, no future, but a constant present ruminating our minds with the uncomfortable familiarity of our homes. I stayed inside, was in quarantine for my birthday and did nothing except sit in my room. I would stare at the blinking cursor on my computer screen, hoping it would spark any sort of writing inclination in me. I felt awful all the time. I felt useless. I felt like nothing mattered because I was simply rotting away in my house.
Another writing project was mapped out and failed, so I was then stuck doing nothing over and over again. It wasn’t until February 2021 that I finally — finally — took the initiative to try harder than before to write something that sounded decent. The first short story led to another, then five more, then seven more. A year later, I published my first collection.
I was as high as the moon when my friend bought the first copy — even higher than the moon when I sold another 200 copies. It was unreal, as is life sometimes. When I saw my book on Amazon, with my name on the cover, I knew that this was my gift — a gift I could not lose because if I did, I would lose myself. That collection of short stories entitled “4:46 P.M.” was my saving grace.
It felt good for a while, and by a while, I mean about a month or so. After that, sales went down dramatically, and I was asked the question, “What’s next?” My mind went from a flickering television to a blank screen with just my reflection staring into space. There may always be a solution to some problems, but do problems really go away in the long run? Was I going to be the one-hit-wonder, News Channel 5, “Hendersonville Teen” that lived in the moment then disappeared off the face of the Earth? No way in God’s name would I let that happen.
My next book came from me messing around at 2 a.m. when I had to be at work in eight hours. It was my first novel, titled “Only Alice Knows Me,” which I completed in three months. Out came book number two in what I hope to be a prolific career.
Again, something was missing when I published it. What was it? Was it the fact that I rushed the novel? It was like I had scarfed down a delicious five-course meal before the appetizer had arrived. It was a horrible, empty feeling that I still hadn’t quite got something right. My words needed to be something that could be savored, and I didn’t understand that at the time.
Soon after my novel, I began on what I can only imagine to be the greatest writing rampage of my lifetime. From January to April of this year, I wrote to my heart’s content, putting as much of myself into my writing as I felt like. It was beautiful. I wrote some of my favorite short stories ever, and now, my new book is out.
I think I’ve got the groove of things now — writing and such. You would think that after publishing two written works, there wouldn’t be any trouble writing another, but you would be very mistaken. Writing this third book — this second collection of short stories — I believe it to be my magnum opus as of now. I’m sure I will soon write something and claim it to be the successor to the throne, but for now, “Senioritis” is my greatest accomplishment. Stories in it like “World Series ‘66,” “The Dog Trials” and “K.” all play parts in my life, sharing with the world how I feel about things. All things in particular.
Reading these stories over and over during editing, I teared up. I never thought it possible to write something like this. I have done what I once thought impossible. After this book, I will begin work on my new novel, but it won’t be out for quite some time. For now, I just want to sit back and relax for a bit. Take my time with writing like I so notoriously haven’t done in the past. Three books in a year and a half have been a lot. I bet even Stephen King or George R.R. Martin would think that’s a lot.
And I hope you, the audience, viewers, peanut gallery, supporters, purchasers and voracious readers can enjoy my books the way I did writing all of them. It has been a long year and a half, but I promise I will never stop writing.
And as Humphrey Bogart said best in 1942: “Here’s looking at you, kid.”
Drake Dyer is a freshman at UT this year studying finance. He can be reached at [email protected].
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