V. H. King's Ink

Finding myself in a fit of anxiety is nothing new. The other day, I found myself worrying about not having enough content for this site. What if I run out of short stories to post? What if Between Cracks in the Concrete doesn’t go anywhere? What if I never have ideas for new content? Will I ever find time to get this whole art thing figured out? (Yeah, that April 15th deadline has come and gone….) I’ve been mildly frantic about this for a week, if not longer. I feel like I’ve been lucky to get by on features from Between Cracks in the Concrete for now, but what next?

In the middle of one such worry session, my brain snatched that What next? question out of the air and ran with it. I’m not talking a 100-meter dash or even the 400 meter race. My brain went on a marathon planning session of what I want to write and when I want to have projects completed.

Between Cracks in the Concrete came from a project where I challenged myself to write a short story a week for an entire year. I sampled thirteen of those short stories for the collection, and there are at least three more mini-anthologies I’m hoping to put together from that stash of rough drafts.

On top of that, I’m certain there are some 5-7 short stories I can expand into multi-part works. I’m thinking something between a long story and a novella. (The Color of Forever might be one such example!) There’s also a full-length novel I’ve been waiting to polish and publish, featuring street racing, sudden consequences, and some weird wisdom. That’s five projects in the last two paragraphs, not counting the high fantasy universe that contains at least ten books.

Suffice it to say, I’m not going to run out of words any time soon.

So why all this anxiety?

Suppose at the end of my life, Someone asked me: What did you do with what was given to you? I’ve been thinking about this a lot recently. I have a deep anxiety of wasting—time, potential, opportunities. I feel a pressure to make the most of everything. I fear failing to achieve what is expected of me. The problem is that, more often than not, I think perfection is the expectation. That’s not the case.

I like to say that I write for two reasons:

collateral damage and character development.

There are plenty of other reasons, (probably millions of them), but the simplest answer is that this is what I have been given. My stories might not be perfect. I certainly am not a perfect author. Instead of trying to live up to a certain standard of writing, (or proving to myself that I’ve been successful with my writing), I’m trying to live in the joy of sharing stories–because that’s what I’m here for. Literally.

The excitement of words coming together to create worlds. The tension of characters facing their failures head-on. The thrill when they rediscover hope and find unexpected treasures along the way. Like my characters, I don’t know what the ending is going to look like. But—and—I’m going to keep writing. I have faith that what needs to be will be. That faith might sometimes waver, my doubts will still creep in, but I’m not giving up.