Last night, while cleaning up my computer in preparation for my annual reformat, I stumbled upon some old short stories I had written.
I have a hard time finding inspiration, but I do have some pretty insane dreams.
Because of my weird anxiety issues, a lot of my dreams involve running away or running late and forgetting everything.
A prominent recurring one is trying to get my makeup together to go to school and missing the bus.
I haven’t ridden on a school bus in 10 years.
The short story, though, that I stumbled upon was a weird one. I had a dream where I woke up in a strange, alien place. Like an apartment or flat, but not human. I was alone and I remember rifling through the drawers and cupboards and finding linen clothes made for people who had four arms. There was a chase and a getting caught. Blah blah woof woof.
When I reread it two years after writing it, it’s an interesting, suspenseful story. But now, even talking about it, I feel weird and embarrassed. Who writes about waking up on a world full of creatures with four arms with no memories?
It feels trite and cliche and silly.
I do have some other interesting dreams I should write about, but I don’t.
I’m cursed with hating what I write and being to embarrassed to show it to anyone to get validation.
Also, people who I show my stories or writings to say I write too technical. I’m very descriptive of things to a fault. But my dialogue is very tight and sparse. At least in this story.
I found another one, based of my own family, where the dialogue carries the story.
All and all, I just try too hard.