I was a pretty avid reader as a child. I’ve always loved the written word. Books have always been a fascination of mine.
I wish I had some epic story of how the written word burned within me since birth yearning to be free (complete with dramatic music and sparkly special effects… that would be awesome).
I wish I had some singular event that I could point to and say, “see, this is what inspired me to write my first story. ” How great it would be to tell you about that one defining moment that led to the epiphanic revelation: “Watch out world! TODAY a writer has been born!!”
None of that…
The truth of the matter is, my journey into writing was a simple and natural progression. I was a reader who said one day, “hey, I bet I could create one of these and it might just be fun.”
I’ve been making up stuff and writing it down ever since. I’ve done it so much and for so long that now I feel like it’s a necessity. I have so many characters and stories in my head it can actually get a little crowded in there. So, I put them on paper partly because I need to make room.
Surprisingly, I never considered writing to be a career path for me. I started writing stories and poetry when I was about nine or ten years old. It was a hobby. It was enjoyable. It was relaxing. I did it for me and with no real intention to even share what I created… with anyone… EVER! In fact, I already had a career goal in mind. Making money off my writing has never been a factor in why I continue to write.
Someone asked me just the other day if I will give up writing if my next novel is a flop.
I write because I enjoy it. Sure I hope others will enjoy what I come up with. But, ultimately, if I am to remain sane in this insane world, I will always in some form of fashion make stuff up and write it down.