[Original Fic/Autobiography] (PG)
Author's Note: Written for 
fic_promptly's Any, Any, the to-do list entry that never gets done. Based on my own experiences and adventures in fic-writing, particularly on this community. So, this is a present for everyone who's ever posted a prompt or written a reply to them!
The Author had a whole slew of Those Fiction Prompts collected from various sites and stored in equally various places, but somehow, she never got around to writing them. Sure, she had ideas as to how to flesh them out into full stories, and in some cases, she had even created a private journal entry for each of several prompts, had even posted a link to the particular prompt on the entries themselves. But things got in the way of the process of writing those prompts: work would bring long hours that kept her busy and ate up her time, or worse, it ate up her energy and left her barely able to write once she got home at the end of a long day. Or there would be unexpected errands to run, that cut into her time. Or unexpected guests would turn up for a visit. Worst of all, her health -- mental or physical -- would take a very unwelcome unpleasant turn and leave her devoid of the kind of energy and focus that writing required. Not a good time to try and write, since at times, the things coming out of her head would take on a word salad quality. Not the kind of things she felt ready to throw out into the public spotlight, much less send in as a reply to a prompt posted by a total stranger. But a friend of hers who favored post-modern modes of writing encouraged her to post them anyway and call it "post-modern writing".
"Yeah, if I want to sound like a drugged out lab rat in the lab of some alien scientist who's trying to figure out how humans tick," the Author replied, with a dry smirk.
Perhaps the most embarrassing failure came as the result of her finding prompts of a more recent vintage, when she had dozens of prompts that she had discovered some time ago, which begged to be answered soon. Resisting the temptation to respond to these more newly minted prompts proved the hardest of all. Older prompts soon got pushed to the back of her mind, to languish in bookmarks folders, on private locked entries with half-completed text, or on printed out lists with newer prompts scribbled into the margins or on the backs of the pages.
Thank heaven for the seasonal arrival of the Lonely Prompts Challenge Week: then the prompts that had all but vanished from her consciousness would come to the forefront, crowding into the creative parts of her mind, begging a reply. She would dig up the half-written entries and complete them, sometimes sitting up into the wee hours of the night to hammer them out, and when she had exhausted those, she would seek out the stories that she had yet to start telling. Older prompts all but consigned to oblivion would rise from the shadows, meeting their more recently created kin, the replies pouring out of her mind in a torrent of creation, like light and form and substance pouring from the singularity that had brought forth the universe itself. Somehow, all tiredness and confusion and mental fogginess would clear, driven away by the drive to create, to tell stories that begged to be told, to fill the requests of the fans who longed to see some untold story of the favorite characters and universes which they and the Author shared in common. And in some cases, universes and characters that they did not expect, but which inspired the recipient to explore.
And she in turn would, from time to time, find a surprise awaiting her in her inbox, a response to a prompt she had posted some time ago and forgotten about, like a squirrel that had buried a nut might find an oak tree that had not populated the forest before. This would give her inspiration a jolt of nourishment, giving her the impetus to continue creating, to continue responding to prompts, to keep giving back to the kind souls that came together in the community, seeking stories to tell and stories that had been told, like so many villagers gathering around a fire in the center square, asking for tales to hear, and hearing tales spun forth by their clever neighbors and companions. The format and the medium might change, but the desire for stories, the desire to hear accounts of adventures from afar, that remained the same. The campfire might be a digital environment, and the villagers might come from all corners of the planet, but the need for storytelling came from the same source that lies in every sentient and creative mind, as it had for thousands of years...
fic_promptly's Any, Any, the to-do list entry that never gets done. Based on my own experiences and adventures in fic-writing, particularly on this community. So, this is a present for everyone who's ever posted a prompt or written a reply to them!
The Author had a whole slew of Those Fiction Prompts collected from various sites and stored in equally various places, but somehow, she never got around to writing them. Sure, she had ideas as to how to flesh them out into full stories, and in some cases, she had even created a private journal entry for each of several prompts, had even posted a link to the particular prompt on the entries themselves. But things got in the way of the process of writing those prompts: work would bring long hours that kept her busy and ate up her time, or worse, it ate up her energy and left her barely able to write once she got home at the end of a long day. Or there would be unexpected errands to run, that cut into her time. Or unexpected guests would turn up for a visit. Worst of all, her health -- mental or physical -- would take a very unwelcome unpleasant turn and leave her devoid of the kind of energy and focus that writing required. Not a good time to try and write, since at times, the things coming out of her head would take on a word salad quality. Not the kind of things she felt ready to throw out into the public spotlight, much less send in as a reply to a prompt posted by a total stranger. But a friend of hers who favored post-modern modes of writing encouraged her to post them anyway and call it "post-modern writing".
"Yeah, if I want to sound like a drugged out lab rat in the lab of some alien scientist who's trying to figure out how humans tick," the Author replied, with a dry smirk.
Perhaps the most embarrassing failure came as the result of her finding prompts of a more recent vintage, when she had dozens of prompts that she had discovered some time ago, which begged to be answered soon. Resisting the temptation to respond to these more newly minted prompts proved the hardest of all. Older prompts soon got pushed to the back of her mind, to languish in bookmarks folders, on private locked entries with half-completed text, or on printed out lists with newer prompts scribbled into the margins or on the backs of the pages.
Thank heaven for the seasonal arrival of the Lonely Prompts Challenge Week: then the prompts that had all but vanished from her consciousness would come to the forefront, crowding into the creative parts of her mind, begging a reply. She would dig up the half-written entries and complete them, sometimes sitting up into the wee hours of the night to hammer them out, and when she had exhausted those, she would seek out the stories that she had yet to start telling. Older prompts all but consigned to oblivion would rise from the shadows, meeting their more recently created kin, the replies pouring out of her mind in a torrent of creation, like light and form and substance pouring from the singularity that had brought forth the universe itself. Somehow, all tiredness and confusion and mental fogginess would clear, driven away by the drive to create, to tell stories that begged to be told, to fill the requests of the fans who longed to see some untold story of the favorite characters and universes which they and the Author shared in common. And in some cases, universes and characters that they did not expect, but which inspired the recipient to explore.
And she in turn would, from time to time, find a surprise awaiting her in her inbox, a response to a prompt she had posted some time ago and forgotten about, like a squirrel that had buried a nut might find an oak tree that had not populated the forest before. This would give her inspiration a jolt of nourishment, giving her the impetus to continue creating, to continue responding to prompts, to keep giving back to the kind souls that came together in the community, seeking stories to tell and stories that had been told, like so many villagers gathering around a fire in the center square, asking for tales to hear, and hearing tales spun forth by their clever neighbors and companions. The format and the medium might change, but the desire for stories, the desire to hear accounts of adventures from afar, that remained the same. The campfire might be a digital environment, and the villagers might come from all corners of the planet, but the need for storytelling came from the same source that lies in every sentient and creative mind, as it had for thousands of years...