A window into my writing world
I’m alone when I write, though I’m never lonely. There are characters running rampant in my head, begging to be made into something. To leave the place I store them and become real. If I’m lucky, I pour them onto the page into people who are loved, hated, or a little of both.
My goal is to share them as I see them, to help them to come across as familiar. Sometimes it takes me many, many tries to get to right. Often, I feel as though I haven’t done them justice on the page. Try as I might, the dark thoughts creep in. Am I doing this right? Am I wasting my time? What happens if no one except me ever gets to see what I’ve created from the depths of my mind. Sometimes I wonder if I really want anyone to see some of the things I imagine.
There are other times, I have no self-doubt. I close up the negative Nelly in me and write for the love of writing. During these times, I write, not caring if anyone ever sees the words on the page. I write because I can’t imagine a world where I never write again. I’ve read book after book on the craft of writing, on how to get published, on how to show and not tell. I read books by authors I admire, picking apart their writing style, comparing it to my own.
I walk around with a notebook to write a scene here or there, whenever I can fit in the time. I buy a lot of notebooks, so many in fact, I have an almost endless supply. I would say I’ve spent a fortune, though that wouldn’t be true. I wait for the clearance sales after schools started, to get them for a bargain.
I’ve had a love for writing as far back as I can remember. In 3rd grade, I won a woman’s writing contest. In 4th, my class wrote and published books for our school library. My High School days, I’d write short stories in class. Thinking of it as something fun to do, not real work. My twenties were filled with children’s stories I’d make up on a whim for my preschool class or my own two children. My thirties brought me to the realization that I owed it to myself to put down on paper, the stories in my head. The ones following me though life. The stories, try as I might, I couldn’t forget.
Now, here I stand. Putting myself out there, trying to get traditionally published. Not having the faintest idea if I’m doing it right, or if there is a right way. Continuing to create relatable characters I want to love or hate or both. Continuing to have new ideas and watching myself get better each time I write.
I am an author and there is no doubt in my mind, one day I will be a traditionally published author.
