Page limits are one of my least favorite ways to write.
And that’s not because I write excessively. My writing professors – and the length of my posts – will tell you otherwise.
More than anything, I enjoy being concise. Negative space is my favorite, and it shows in every essay, or piece of prose I’ve turned in this year.
This style has helped me in some of my communications courses, however sometimes it makes my creative writing professors and classmates wanting more. And unfortunately I can’t help that.
I mean, sure, I could write more. This isn’t laziness at its finest; its letting the reader turn subjects over in their own minds. I want them to read in the negative space. And sometimes that means finding whats threaded between the lines.
When I reach the end of a topic, I’ll stop. That final word, line, paragraph is all I want to leave my reader with. Not summary of my words. I like my endings to float off into the ether, leaving them satisfied but also craving more.
One of my professors wants us to write ten pages of any fictional work we choose, which will receive classmate’s critiques. My first piece was three pages. Three.
It was an idea I had for several years, and had not worked on until this class. Everyone loved it, but wasn’t sure where it was all going. I didn’t either. At least we had that in common. Despite the butcher paper on my dorm room wall covered in ideas and questions, there were more question marks on that page than I was comfortable with. So the idea is put on the back burner to stew.
My second piece was Harry Potter fanfiction. This was easily nine pages. At least I met that limit.
Now my last piece is a slow struggle. Ideas are there, but not enough for ten pages. The plots and characters linger just outside my vision. No one wants to step into the limelight.
Page limits kill me.