Okay, maybe a brief
intro. So I began writing when I was 11, mostly essays, articles, summaries,
letters, basic 6th grade writing assignments. At first, I wasn’t
great. In fact, I sucked. But then my writing teacher brought me out of my
logical shell and into a completely different one. A creative shell. But this
shell only traveled as far as the page limit did. I was limited. I felt confined, but I was
safe. And, for that, I was happy.
I
began writing poetry, little stories. Nothing major, I wasn’t really an
established author at that time. But it was fun.
Then,
in seventh grade, my English teacher had us do the basics. It was fun, I had
more creative freedom this time and I was less safe. It wasn’t as formulaic as
6th grade.
Sometime
over the winter break that year, I started writing my first ever story. And it was fun. During that time, I had
composed several short stories. One of them I showed to my friends.
Now
I’m not really the type of person who waves their banner in someone else’s
face. Maybe I was proud, maybe I was excited, maybe I was relieved, maybe I was
desperate. Whatever the reason, I showed it to my buds.
The
results? Well, technically it was intended to be a birthday present for my
friend. I don’t think she loved it, but she obviously didn’t hate it. It wasn’t
horrible at all. Then, my other friends read it. Some of them liked it. Some of
them didn’t.
Well,
it seems I’ve left out a big part of this story. It was a horror story. Only
about 4 pages long, but it was kind of scary. Not like a Stephen King novel but
you get the idea.
The
friends who didn’t like it said that it was too creepy for them.
When
I heard this, of course I played it off like I didn’t care. But I did. I really
did.
It
made its way inside of me and began eating its way down into my soul, then to
my core.
It
hurt. I’m not going to lie.
After
months and months after showing my friends, I decided that my story was just no
good. That’s it. That’s why they didn’t like it. It was all my fault.
I
contemplated my mental state for weeks after that. How could someone as
seemingly ordinary as me compose such a grueling story?
How
I wish I could go back in time to tell myself what I know now. It would have
saved me a lot of heartache. Don’t you ever wish you could stop worrying?
Well,
what I learned is—I happened to have done a very good job. I thought I was this
evil person lurking in this twelve-year-old body. But I was merely a
well-taught author. Here’s how.
The
friends who called it creepy acted like it was a bad thing. And maybe it was
for them. But, for me, it was exactly what I wanted. Wasn’t it?
I
mean, wasn’t that the whole point? To scare the crap out of someone? And in all
honesty, this story really wasn’t scary. It was pretty dry. But, nevertheless,
I had accomplished the goal hadn’t I?
Well, then why did I feel so bad for scaring her?
The
answer is this: all authors, composers/ artists/ musicians/ etc do this. After
each presented work, you prime your mind with this type of paint, called failure. You know that someone somewhere
is going to hate it. And there’s nothing you can do about it. Except sit, watch,
and cry.
I
think the psychology aspect of it is that society nowadays is striving always
for selflessness. This translates into: they
didn’t like my story/ painting/ drawing/ song/ etc, so it must be my fault. I
didn’t put forth my best effort to make it work for them. And for that, I
should be punished.
No,
you shouldn’t. Everyone’s vision is different. If someone doesn’t want to read
a scary story, they shouldn’t check one out. And that’s something you can’t
control. You’ll just have to leave it to the reader. If someone doesn’t approve
of the genre you write in—screw them. They obviously aren’t as brave as you.
Don’t
be afraid—that’s your reader’s job.
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