Oh the excitement-long time ago now that I felt like this-of creative writing. A couple a days ago I looked through an old notebook and found the early writings of a story of some sort and I thought to myself that maybe I should get back at the story. So I did, with no anticipation of getting anything out of it. Oh boy how wrong I was. The writing of this-for me-unknown story set a flame to the dying spark inside me and once again it’s fun to write. I have gotten back this feeling of real excitement: my heart’s beating, sweat in my armpits as before and shaking hands.
I have no clear idea of where this story will take me or what will happen but what has happened so far is that a few characters from my old story called The Gardener has shown up, just brief mentions of them but as far as of now, no actions or visual representations and I think I will keep it that way.
The over all idea that has formed is to write short stories, loosely connected to that of The Gardener. I do know though that this new character I have created in this short story will die by the hand of my favorite angel from The Gardner.
Something else to mention is that this story is being written in Pages instead of Scrivener which I typically go to. I have even formatted the work already, inspired by a printout of the stories from the very first issue of The Paris Review.
Oh boy, stopping is even harder than keep writing but at some point I have to stop and eat, go to the toilet and sleep. I do not dare to hope for this to stay but I sure want it to. I love this feeling and it’s the reason why I even wanted to become a writer from the beginning: accomplishment and expression of thoughts in a fictive way that tells a story of the simple things here in life that people like to complicate – love.
But don’t understand me wrong. I do not write romance. I’m not sure what genre I write but it’s definitely not romance, more like drama taking place in a fictive late 19th century/early 20th century even though it’s not historical correct. I like to take inspiration from that era and it keeps me away from cell phones and social media and what not.
Alaska Frank is just a coffee loving playwright with his head in the bushes - and occasionally writer of poetry and short stories - who one day might grow up, but until then, Alaska Frank will continue making things up and write them down.
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