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Author has written 1 story for Percy Jackson and the Olympians.
The Last You Will Hear From Me Here
These are my last words that you will hear on my account, because I am a coward. I have a new account where I will post stories. I won’t link it though, because I want it to just be me and my words. I know that this is stupid, but hear me out. Although this is unfair and I made you wait for a long time, I feel it is fair that I have a reason why I decided to leave. To do so, I must start from the very beginning.
I found fanfiction because my cousin introduced it to me. It was a whole new world for me. A place where I could write for a series that I loved – it was a dream come true. I wouldn’t get weird looks for doing so, and I could outlet this desire – the need – to write. I began on a separate account from the one I’m currently using. The story is gone now, but it still exists on in my memory.
I wrote more stories for different fandoms, and many different plots appeared. It was just a channel for me to write what I wanted, and for something I loved. It made me happy when people read, but I didn’t care that people were reading. I just loved the feeling of typing out ideas of my own. It became something I enjoyed.
One day, as I read some fanfiction, it occurred to me I had never written for one fandom I really loved – Percy Jackson. I wanted to contribute to it.
And so I did.
I wrote a couple drafts, and submitted my first chapter. And people liked it. They asked for me for more. It was new to me, and I really liked having people read what I wrote.
My story became popular as I submitted stubs I called chapters. People liked it, and wanted to read more. And I gave more. I submitted to the whims of my reviewers so I could keep them. I wanted to have more reviews and favorites. I loved the feeling of getting an email that gave me notifications. It had changed me.
Slowly, I began to stop enjoying the freedom to write. No, it was no longer freedom. It had become the shackles that kept me tethered to the ground. I longed to fly free, and I did try. I submitted other stories, and I waited for them to see if they would get reviews like my other stories. But I got nothing. So I deleted them, and kept those heavy chains on me.
I continued to feed the monster that had grown inside of me. It told me that what I was doing was stupid, and that I should just give up. The more I wrote, the more I felt as if it was going to consume me.
I changed because I had grown popular. Fame, no matter how little, changes you once you get it. It can make you selfish, and lose sight of your real sight. I had become drunk on the tiny fame I had. It was frightening. Something that I jumped at to do had become nothing but a simple chore. I hated it, and it was painful to keep updating. More and more people read, more favorites, more reviews. I felt terrible for doing what I was doing. I was doing something that I hated and getting popular, while people who loved what they were doing were stuck at the very bottom.
To hate something you loved from the bottom of your heart makes you feel like you’ve sunk down until you’ve reached the bottom of the Marianas Trench.
Finally one day, I wrote the last chapter of the story. It was as if the weight had been lifted up away from me. Although I was sad to part ways with my story, I left it alone and ran away from the shackles. What I had not known was that since I had been in my shackles for so long, the room I was trapped in was just another way to prevent me from seeing the blue skies.
I put the story in the corner of my life and tried to forget. I wanted to forget. I didn’t want to remember it anymore. The monster didn’t die away, just grew smaller until it became the little critique in my heart to remind me that my heart still carried the burdens.
One day, I went back on to my profile and re-read my story. I hated it. I wished it was gone. My heart had already grown weak could not find a way to destroy it. Yet it still did. The best way for me to get rid of it, at the time, was to rewrite it. That would mean I could get rid of the weight that had weighed me down, because it would not be the same. And so I made the announcement that I would rewrite it.
So I tried. Yet no words would appear on the screen. I didn’t understand why. I thought it was just minor writers’ block. It was no big deal, I just wrote different ideas and started thinking more about the rewrite. It became a chunk of my life to think about. I was thinking, “This would be a nice thing to incorporate” or “That’s a good idea I should consider for the rewrite.”
Time passed and I learned more writing techniques. My style was beginning to form and I decided that it would be good to start writing the rewrite. But as I sat at my computer ready to start, no words would form. Coherent thoughts swam through my head, but try as I might, no words I could start with appeared. The writers’ block hadn’t gone away. It had only gotten worse.
Fast forward to more recent times. The writers’ block had painfully ebbed away as I needed to rely on my words more. Stories of all kinds swarmed me, and filled me with glee. Writing became fun for me to do again. I love conveying emotions through my words. It made me feel like I could change who I was just for a moment.
I decided to write the rewrite. I really did try. Many drafts were scrapped. Plots were created and then severely butchered. No ideas would flow. It was still fun to write the many plots that had appeared in my mind but I couldn’t understand that even though it was fun, I couldn’t write.
I tried to draw inspiration from anything that I could. I tried really hard to find some light at the back of my mind that had already grown dark. Alas, there was none and so I closed the doors to all of the plots.
As I thought about it as of this week, I realized that my past had caused so many burdens on me. It was painful me to remember the years that I wrote it in. I didn’t want to deal with it. The idea to get rid of it was appealing. Just start over. Delete the story. Pretend it never existed.
I couldn’t get rid of it. Even if I did, this story kicked off my love for writing. I just couldn’t make it not exist. It would be terrible since I no longer even have the drafts for the story.
I wanted to keep it. But I wanted to run free and see the blue skies. Today, I’ve decided that my cowardice is unforgivable. The many ideas of me running free from my burdens are just me trying to run away again. It would’ve been like I had just stopped writing the story in the first place. My words are important to me. Every single letter is a part of me. How could I just leave them behind as if these words did not exist? My story is my bones and these words will rage in my heart.
So I’ve decided. I will take on these words that I carry in my heart, and place them on my shoulders. The shackles have disappeared, but the markings will stay with me as my battle scars. I’ll get up from the floor, and I will not admit defeat not even if I break. And I will beat down these walls that surround me no matter how long it takes. I will see the blue skies again.
But I won’t forget.
Because it’s really important.
Here’s to a new beginning.
--8/15/13 12:00 A.M.