The first story I wrote down was in fourth grade. It was based on a dream I had, some kind of mishmash of a normal day at school and Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle. It wasn’t good and I never finished it.
The next was an adventure story about my cat, which involved a plane ride to Egypt and a trip through the pyramids. I finished that one and still have it. It’s not very good either, but my young cousin once reportedly said it was the best story she’d ever read, so I’m counting that one as a win.
After that, there are too many stories to count. My childhood home burned down a few years ago and most of my writing survived, for better or worse. It’s hard not to see that as a sign, and I can’t seem to stop writing, no matter how discouraged I get or how many rejection letters I receive. I don’t want to stop; writing is something that’s kept me going in my lowest moments. I have to see how the story ends even if I’m the one writing it.
Anyway, here’s a drabble.
(Verb: From Latin scripturire for “to desire to write”)
Having a strong urge to write.
His fingers claw around the quill, knuckles white, nails bitten jagged and thin. His eyes dart to the clock and back to the paper, teeth worrying at his lip.
Any moment now. He counts backward, three, two, one, and his hand begins to write.
It flies across the paper, nonsense at first, meaningless scribbles and smears of ink that threaten to soak through the paper. Still, he squints down at it as his hand continues of its own accord, eyes scanning for any semblance to coherency.
I miss you, he reads between the splotches. It isn’t enough. It’s never enough.