The Fictitious World

I love fiction. The idea of make-believe is my sanctuary, a place where I can forget about reality, diving right on into a new world, a new person, and new ideas.

I used to achieve total submersion by reading. Believe me, I have so many books in my bedroom, and I do not even know how I have managed to read most of them. Of course, recently, I have not found the discipline to sit down and read in a long time, and I think I finally figured out why.

My writing has been taking up most of my brain power recently. I am obsessed with getting this novella written and edited completely. Even though it has constantly been on my mind, I also cannot find the discipline to sit down and write.

Do you see my predicament? I cannot read because my brain wants to write, but it is so preoccupied with the idea of writing that it will not let me write.

I have been a little confused by this, by what this means. I have contemplated whether or not I am truly fit to be a writer, and I have also thought that maybe this writing-anxiety is giving me writer’s block.

I am still not entirely positive that this is my problem, but I think it may be because this time, my writing is not in a fictitious world.

Every character is complete fiction, as is the setting, the plot, and everything I created, but the real problems that I address in it are completely real to existing people in this world. Every time I write, I think about how there are people who experience abuse, addiction, anger, rape, homelessness, violence, and death every single day. And the scariest thing to me, is the lack of empathy our world holds for people with major issues, how I have written my main character like the people I witness every day, the people who do not let themselves feel emotion because of their overwhelming anxiety for trusting others.

These ideas scare me, and I rant about them every time I get a chance. (Ask my poor mother; she listens to my angry ramblings no matter what.) But that is why I needed to write it. And I still love my story and what it represents; it is just so difficult to make myself write it.

I have written this story for a reason. I believe these are major issues we need to address as a society, so it is extremely important that people understand what I mean about our empathy problem. It is difficult to explain without reading the story, I believe. So hopefully it could get to the point of publishing soon.

I love writing because it brings me into a fictitious world, so I think the issue is that this is reality that I am trying to address, which is hindering me from achieving my full submersion into fiction.

But it is important, so I am going to suck it up, turn off my distractions, and write.

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