Saturday Morning Wake Up Call

I had a dream last night. One of those dreams where I know I need to listen. Two old men sat at a picnic table by a lake. They were the gruff no nonsense types with the unmistakable air that only retired cops possess. There was nothing film noir about them or the situation. I got the feeling I needed to heed what they were saying though. Girlie needed to listen up as what they were telling me was incredibly important. One more thing. They were dead.

They told me that I knew what I had to do. I had to get closure. I needed to do that in two ways. One I needed to find out what happened. I know cryptic right? But I knew exactly what they were talking about. The second thing being that I had to write about it. I had to take the two books I had already started that are in a similar vein and combine them with the third that has yet to be written. This they told me was my story to tell. They chuckled and exchanged a familiar glance making me think they knew each other in life. The tougher looking one said, "Aren't you writers supposed to write about what you know anyway?" I quietly said, "Yes that sounds about right". I smiled up at them and asked if I could leave now. I was excused but I had to remember this. I had to remember what they told me when I woke up. There is a story in me and no matter what I think when I wake up I had to remember it and write it.

It's true. It's been there all this time and I've tried so hard to write it and at the same time to stamp it out. Write what you know right? Well, what if I write it and it hurts people I love to read these things? What if I write it and despite it being fictionalized it still rings true and causes problems? What if a lot of things. What if it's too scary and hard? Heh. That is about the gist of it.

I'm sure other writers have come across this problem. The story is there and all at once at the most inopportune times the words come tumbling out. The words are there in writers block and get tangled in your brain. They form a web holding you captive for far too long. You live inside your head a lot in those times which can be an alternately fascinating yet frightening place. You can taste and feel the words. Visualize them spilling forth and hitting the page. You know it's there. All you have to do is commit. Write it. You can only go on so many runs before you hit a wall and know it's time to sit and write that story that you are supposed to tell.