I stumbled across an old memory today on Pinterest, check out these archived screenshots of my old haunt – The former AOL site was the brainchild of Dan Hurley, the original 60 second novelist, you can check out his book here on GoodReads.
Amazing Instant Novelist was affiliated with Chicken Soup for the Soul, it was filled with message boards for writers and readers alike. I found the site in 1997 and was hooked. I read and I wrote and I became part of my very first cyber family there. There were contests and prizes and tons of camaraderie, it was, for lack of a better word, fantabulous.
It wasn’t long before I was asked to join the ranks as NovlQwiet, and became one of their volunteer admins. I was rather brokenhearted when the site was acquired by some other entity and faded from existence. I still miss it to be honest. The years I spent there are treasured.
It was there I realized I had something to offer, something I didn’t need to keep to myself, buried in notebooks and journals . . . my words. They read them, they picked them up and they displayed them; they valued them. I was encouraged and applauded and it was good. So good.
I’d never been in the company of other writers, I wasn’t even certain I was one of them until they assured me I was. The other Novls embraced me, the writers who came there to write respected me, and the readers who simply came there to read uplifted me. It was kind of a beautiful thing and I’ll always, always be thankful I was a part of it.
Crystal R. Cook
I truly have no idea what I want to write. I suppose that’s not entirely true, I’ve too many things I want to write would be a far exceedingly accurate representation of my current situation. There are so many words inside of me, fighting to be set free. They seem to be canceling each other out in an effort to be given life.
Long kept memories, some good, some I wish could simply be forgotten, wrestle with the new, clamoring for release. Ideas and epiphanies stored in the recesses of my mind, stories and dreams and fantasies, ancient hopes and longings, emerging wishes, knowledge and insights begging to be shared. The cacophony of silent rumblings never seem to rest.
The tangled remnants of thoughts within me wrestle with emerging ruminations, which do I favor? How do I choose? I sit to write, willing one or the other to rise to the surface, making my choice clear, but I wait in vain. They can’t decide so I must choose, but the how eludes me. They taunt me, floating just below the horizon of conscious thought, knowing I can’t quite reach them there.
Sometimes I doubt their existence, call them tormentors and illusions, but that would mean I’ve gone mad without realizing I’d somehow slipped from realities grasp. No, they are as real as the pen I hold. They are unforgiving perhaps, slighted in some way because I did not release them sooner, I could not release them, it wasn’t their time. Perhaps it still isn’t.
Maybe tomorrow they will willingly come . . .
Crystal R. Cook