I Finally Wrote An Opening Chapter of A Fiction Book
Just when I'm really doubting if Owen as a writer is a thing.
I have a debate with myself on a regular basis. The routine is as follows: I ask the following Question:
Am I—Owen Muir, the human, not the persona who goes by “Owen Muir,” who is the eponymous narrator of most of the content on this newsletter—an author? Do my readers consume what I am cranking out because it’s engaging writing? Or, because, as a physician, I have something interesting to say. You are all—and bless you, all 600,000+ of you who have read this newsletter around 2.5 million times in the past several years—Saints. Y’all, willing to put up with my somewhat crummy writing to get to the good stuff, which is, of course, the knowledge I impart. I have non-fiction books, like This Therapy Manual, and This Cynical Guide To Medicines.
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This question is, itself, a farce. It is a song and dance to protect my frail ego, which, like that of virtually all authors, is vulnerable to my insecurity. I'm worried you don’t like me. Or…won’t like me. If I were only a writer, and didn't write about anything that was life or death stuff for many of you, no one would read a word of it, I fret. As an artist, I’m—to quote my daughter—mid.
I know this. I already know this for a fact, thanks to my music. For new readers, I’m a bottom-tier musician, with about 10k streams a month from a few people. Some months it’s hundreds, while others are tens of listeners.
If you are going to prove it to yourself, feel free—I think this song is pretty good:
However, the point, dear readers, is that my precious art is not appreciated because, according to my insecurities, it is not very good. I hide behind non-fiction, as a writer, because hundreds of thousands want to hear what I have to say. I'm so interesting when it comes to “content” that, in 15-second increments, I've racked up 6.7 million views on TikTok this year. However, again, for my ego, it’s not good enough. Nothing is ever good enough for an artist. I want you to love me for how special I am at art, my heart would cry out —if I weren’t so afraid of the silence that would respond.
However, such insecurity is boring to me. Thus, tonight, I’m going to get over it. The reason I haven’t written more artsy fartsy stuff—like fiction!—is because I am too busy or too uninspired or, realistically, too ADHD to organize it. And the only way to get over writer’s block—and the insecurity it is a cover for— is to write. Just like I did with the non-fiction in this newsletter, just like I did with my admittedly “mid” music, and just like I did with poetry.
Yes, I already have two books of poetry for you to read or not as you see fit!
The Hellthread and Why We Skeet (Amazon affiliate links)
So, without further ado, some fiction, which begins a book—a novel—I may or may not keep working on. Consider yourselves my accountability buddies.
2023
It's frustrating. That's the bottom line. There's a sense of frustration. A sense of wanting to attend. Wishing to pay attention. Morning. Warning. Mourning. It's not right. Not the way it is.
John would spend every morning this way. Every morning this way for about a decade. In the years leading up to this decade, John would come to regret his first name. He wished it were something more outstanding. More unique. That's before the stalking began. Before long, his very ordinary first name became his closest thing to a refuge.
It's hard to stalk somebody named John. It's hard to ruin that good name. It's like trying to destroy Richard Smith. Yeah, but which one? John is almost like a cloak of invisibility.
John was a pretty surprising first name, given the compromise involved. It was a compromise between an uncompromising woman and a compromised man.